


1.15 Christmas in the Shack

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adventure, Christmas, F/M, Friendship, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: Christmas! And Dipper and Mabel's best present is getting to spend part of their winter vacation back in Gravity Falls, where mysterious happenings are, uh . . . you know, dawgs, happening.





	1.15 Christmas in the Shack

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Gravity Falls or its characters, the property of the Walt Disney Company and Alex Hirsch. I write only for fun, because I love Alex Hirsch's creation and his people and, I hope, to entertain other fans; I make no money from my fanfictions.

**Christmas in the Shack**  

**By William Easley**

* * *

 

**Chapter 1: Christmas Visitor**

When Dipper and Mabel Pines had been little kids, they hardly slept at all on Christmas Eve night—they were too excited while they waited for Santa.

Well, here it was Christmas Day, 2013, and they were now fourteen years old—and they still hadn't slept the night before, because they were too excited waiting for someone coming to visit the next day.

The Pines household celebrated both Hanukkah (for Dad) and Christmas (for Mom), and Hanukkah had ended nearly three weeks earlier. The eight gifts that each of them had received now seemed old to them. That Christmas morning, from four a.m. until about eleven, they were busy with the ones that they'd unwrapped under the tree before sunup.

Now Mabel slumped on the sofa, head lolled back, mouth open and drooling a little bit, as she snored gently over the first of two toboggan caps—the kits had been one of her gifts—she was knitting for her two Grunkles. Next to her, leaning against her, her twin Dipper slept as well, a huge, glossy, brand-new book about ancient mythologies from all over the world open on his knees. Both kids were still in pajamas, Mabel's her trademark lavender floppy-disk top over fluffy red-flannel pants, Dipper's a midnight-blue with the Big Dipper on the front in little white starry dots.

Their mom, busy in the kitchen with the Christmas meal—late lunch or early dinner— kept coming to the door and smiling at her children. Her husband constantly kibitzed, tasting the dressing, basting the turkey, checking out the two pies in the bottom oven, munching nuts that he wasn't supposed to touch.

Twenty minutes past noon, he answered the kitchen phone, spoke for about a minute, and then hung up. He came to stand beside his wife, putting his arms around her waist. "That was our visitor. Just gave the directions for the last few turns. Maybe we ought to wake them up."

"No, let's wait," Mom answered. "You know what it would be like—as though we'd released the hounds."

So for five minutes or thereabouts, the Pines twins slumbered peacefully while Dad kept pacing the living room and looking out a front window every thirty seconds, and then at last he said, "Here we go!" He went through the kitchen to the side door—it opened into the garage—and stepped out, raising the garage door. The forest-green car had just parked in the drive.

He walked out into the California sunshine as a tall, red-haired girl in a green jacket climbed out of the driver's seat. "Hi!" Dad said to her. "You made good time!" He introduced himself.

"Wendy Corduroy," the girl said, smiling and flipping back her incredibly long braids. "I would've known you anywhere! There's a strong family resemblance. So Mabel and Dipper didn't want to come greet me?"

Dad chuckled. "They're snoozing! It's just twelve-thirty, and they got up around four." He ran his hand over the warm hood of the car. "I can see you're starting a restoration job! What is this, a '72?"

"A '73," she said. "And it runs better than it looks!"

"Could I see the engine?"

"Sure, sir," Wendy said, leaning into the driver's side and popping the hood.

He laughed. "You don't have to call me 'sir.' Hey, wow, look at that! You had some work done!"

"Nope," she said, grinning. "Did it all myself. Been savin' up my salary, half in a college fund, half in a keep-the-Dart-going fund."

"You rebuilt this engine yourself?"

"Mostly, yeah, and it runs good, but I can do better. I bought an even better engine and for just a hundred bucks! I've got it taken apart now, seein' what I need to do to get it in the best shape."

"A hundred dollars! That was a bargain."

Wendy shrugged. "Well, it came from a car a guy had wrecked in '76, totaled it, buckled the frame an' all, but he was, like, sentimental, and stuck the wreck in his barn. Stayed there until the guy passed away last summer, an' his widow just wanted to clean the junk out of the barn. All I could use is the engine, but it's in great shape, less than 20,000 miles. The one there, it's got at least nine hundred thousand miles on it!"

"Wow," Mr. Pines said again. "You rebuilt a slant-6! Can I adopt you?"

Wendy laughed. "My Dad wouldn't like that. Hey, you want to take my car out for a spin?"

Mr. Pines slammed the hood down and with the eagerness of a child asked, "Could I?"

"Sure! Just help me get my overnight bag and tote bags of presents out of the trunk first."

He did, and they went through the garage. Mr. Pines introduced Wendy to Mrs. Pines in the kitchen, and he took her small suitcase and bags to the guest room. Then he said, "I'm gonna get to drive a classic Dodge Dart!"

Wendy handed him the keys and said, "Have fun!"

He was already out the door.

Mrs. Pines shook her head. "Men and cars! Our Christmas dinner won't be ready for another two hours. Would you like some herbal tea, dear?" she asked.

"Sounds great." Wendy shucked her jacket. "I'm not used to your climate! It's a whole lot colder up in Oregon. Better make sure that Mabel and Dipper pack some warm clothes."

"Oh, I have it all on my checklist," Mrs. Pines said. "Do you like peppermint tea?"

"I love peppermint!"

"Here, while it's steeping, I'll take your coat back to the guest room."

Wendy took the chance to peep into the living room, where Dipper and Mabel still slept on, oblivious. She re-joined their mother and they sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Pines poured two cups of fragrant tea and offered Wendy a honey jar. Wendy took two spoonfuls. "Mabel and Dipper have really shot up a lot just since summer," Wendy said. "They'll almost be able to look me in the eye, and as you see, I'm a very gawky girl. That's an impressive growth spurt!"

"I'm so pleased they're going to get to visit their great-uncle Stanford again," Mrs. Pines said, holding her cup in both hands. "They have so much fun up in Gravity Falls. Oh, and they've told us all about Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez, and you, too, of course. Mabel thinks you're just like a big sister." She leaned closer. "And don't tell him I said so, but I think Dipper has a tiny little crush on you!"

"No!" Wendy said, pretending surprise.

"Yes! But, dear, don't say anything. It would only embarrass him. Boys go through these phases, you know."

"Oh, sure. I have three brothers of my own," Wendy told her. "Don't worry. I love Mabel to death, and she and Dipper and I have a lot of fun together. I guess because my mom died when I was little, I sort of missed out on a lot of my childhood, and they help me catch up."

"I should tell you too," Mrs. Pines said, dropping her voice to almost a whisper, "that the twins' dad may call Dipper by his real name. I know my boy never lets anyone know what it is. When he was a toddler, he got so used to my calling him Dipper that he treats that like his real name. But don't let it throw you if you hear him called Mason while you're here. Well, how was your drive down?"

Wendy sipped her tea. "Fine, really very smooth. Not much traffic on Christmas Day. I left Gravity Falls way early this morning, and except for gas an' bathroom breaks, drove straight through. Tomorrow the traffic will probably be heavier, but if we leave around nine, I should still get them to their great-uncle's place before eight at night."

"Oh, dear—you missed Christmas with your family!"

"No, not really," Wendy said with a smile. "We always celebrate on Christmas Eve. Then the next day my dad piles us into the truck and we drive, like, twenty miles and then hike 'way out in the woods for a week of apoc—uh, I mean rough camping. I'm pretty good at it, but that's not something I miss all that much, and I was lucky he let me off the hook this year."

"Well, we're so happy you could come. Um, on the drive up to Oregon tomorrow—you will be careful?"

"I was the top student in Driver's Ed," Wendy assured her. "I've never had even so much as a parking ticket, and absolutely no moving violations. And I observe speed limits and always drive defensively. Like a tank driver!"

Mrs. Pines laughed. "I see why the twins are so fond of you. Your hair is so pretty! Those long, long braids—it must be a lot of work to keep them so nice. Oh, listen, that must be my husband returning. You've impressed him, I think. He loves classic cars!"

And indeed Mr. Pines came bouncing into the kitchen, all smiles. "Dear, Wendy's a mechanic! She has that Dart running as if it was just off the assembly line. Now, that's a real car! Solid, dependable, no computer components to glitch—"

"My husband," Mrs. Pines said fondly, "is in software design."

"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck almost exactly the way Dipper did, "if I designed automotive software, and if every car had my software in it, I wouldn't mind so much. But some of these other code writers are real idiots!"

"We ought to wake up the kids," Mrs. Pines said. "My schedule is getting all off."

"Let me do it," Wendy said.

She tiptoed into the living room, gently settled on the sofa next to Dipper, and then said pretty loudly, "Dudes, we gonna laze around here all day, or what?"

Mabel and Dipper woke at the same moment and both yelled, "Wendy!"

They jumped on her, hugged and laughed, and then they all stood up and looked at each other.

"Hey, looka this!" Mabel said, giving Wendy an ear-to-ear smile.

"Beautiful!" Wendy said. "When'd you get the braces off?"

"Last week! I'm thtill getting uthed to talking without them!"

"Hey, I remember how it was," Wendy said. "But girl, you got gorgeous teeth now!"

Mabel reached out and stroked one of her braids. "Wow. You must've had a long braid train to help you with this!"

"Nah, did it myself. Wanted to look less wild for your folks, you know. But let me look at you. Stand straight!" Both twins raised their chins, and Wendy grinned and shook her head. "Man, you guys are really growin' up on me! Dipper, you still keeping up that exercise routine? I mean, you look pretty buff!"

Dipper had hardly spoken to her, and he stared at her with big, big eyes, looking almost as if he were about to weep with joy. Then, exactly as his father had done, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, I guess I sort of have—"

"Tell her, bro!" Mabel crowed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

"Mabel, it's not that big a deal!" Dipper complained.

"Yeah it is!" To Wendy, Mabel said, "My broregard here made the school Junior Track team! He ran the hundred-meter dash in twelve and a half seconds!"

"Aw, Mabel . . . . "

"Wow! That's real good time, man!" Wendy said.

Dipper sighed deeply and looked miserable. "Yeah, but—well—the state finals are gonna be June 6th and 7th. If our school gets that far, I can't go to Gravity Falls until after."

Mrs. Pines stood in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. "He's so conflicted about that!"

Wendy laughed again and ruffled Dipper's hair. "Tell you what, big guy: You make it to the finals, I will personally come down and sit in the stands and cheer you on. Then I'll drive you guys back up, and you won't have a long, boring bus trip. And that way you won't miss the fishing opener an' Summerween!"

"Oh," Mrs. Pines said, "thank you, dear. That's so kind of you!"

Mr. Pines came up behind her, put his hands on his wife's shoulders, and beamed at the kids. "You can stay with us again," he insisted. "And we will absolutely pay for the gas—it'll still be a lot cheaper than two bus tickets!"

"All settled!" Mabel said, raising her hand for silence in a dramatic way. "Now for the important part—Dah,ta-dah dat ta-dah! PRESENTS!"

"First," Mrs. Pines said firmly, "you two get dressed!"

"Aw, Mom," Mabel grumped, but she and Dipper ran to their rooms, determined to get back in record time.

* * *

 

**Chapter 2: The Ghost of Christmas Presents**

"Oh, Wendy!" Dipper said, staring at the contents of the big box. "This is way too much! It must have been really expensive!"

"Relax, dude," Wendy told him, grinning. They all sat on the floor beside the tree, which Dipper had switched on so it danced and twinkled with lights. "I sold some blood. Ya know, Corduroy blood goes for a thousand bucks a pint!" When he raised his head with a stricken expression, she punched his arm. "Kidding! I shopped on sale days all fall an' picked up some great bargains."

From the box Dipper took out an oversized backpack, a compact pup tent, a canteen and set of camping cookware, a fancy compass, a toolkit with a folding saw, a hatchet, a knife, a burning glass for starting campfires, a powerful flashlight, and some electronic components he didn't recognize. "What are these?"

Wendy leaned over. "Oh, right, those are contributions from Fiddleford and Ford." Looking around to make sure Dipper's parents weren't listening—they were in the dining room setting the table for the meal—she said, "The long one with the green screen that looks sorta like a remote control is an anomaly detector like Ford's, but miniaturized. It gives you a six-axis readout, whatever that means. He'll show you how to use it. The smaller roundish one is Fiddleford's protective field generator, guaranteed to repel most dingdanged supernality extra-mundane hootenanny critters to a distance of at least fifteen feet away from you, by crackity. Or so he says."

Dipper touched the devices reverently. "Well, it's all great. But I don't have much experience, you know, out in the woods. I mean, except with the Manotaurs, and I've been trying to forget those two days!"

Wendy smiled. "Don't worry about that. Keep it quiet from the 'rents, but I'll take you out into the woods next summer and teach you all about camping." She zipped her lip.

Smiling, Dipper did the same.

Meanwhile, Mabel was sniffling and weeping a little—tears of joy. She lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, in front of a home-made book. "These are really Waddles's kids?" she asked, looking up from the fat scrapbook of photos Wendy had both shot herself and collected from all of her and Mabel's friends. They'd all been taken during September, October, and November in Gravity Falls. The page Mabel was studying featured an eight-by-ten that showed Waddles looking content and surrounded by eight tiny little pink piglets.

Wendy chuckled. "Yeah, guess his marriage to Gompers didn't take," she said. "Soos introduced him to a nice lady pig who lives on a farm outside the valley, an', well, nature took its course. The farmer promises none of 'em will wind up as bacon or ham, and best of all, you get the pick of the litter when we get back to the Falls. Waddles can show one of his babies the ropes about piggin'."

"Ooh, a Waddles Junior!"

"I'm glad you're happy," Wendy said. "But how about the other stuff? You like the clothes?"

"Love 'em!" Mabel said, rolling over on her back and holding an assortment of jeans, boot socks, and comfy soft shirts to her chest. "An' the boots will be great for going camping, too! Now for you! Your turn, mine first!" she held out a big flat box. Shyly, she admitted, "I didn't spend a lot of money, but I put a lot of time into this."

Wendy opened it and took the present from a bed of tissue paper. "Oh, snap! Mabel, this is your masterpiece! Oh, this is so—"

"Try it on!" Mabel said.

"'Kay!" Wendy stood up and pulled the sweater down over her head. "Perfect fit! Oh, man, this is the coolest. I mean, it's so great! Feels snug an' warm, and it's even nicer that the Weirdmageddon one you did for me!" She spread out her arms and showed off her new sweater, a bright red—but knitted with black panes and lines in a flannel plaid pattern! "Must've taken you, like, forever!"

"It was a challenge," Mabel agreed. Then she picked up a manila envelope and from it she took out three round cloth circles. "I also embroidered these to go on the sweater as appliqués. But I couldn't decide which one you'd like, so you pick and I'll fix it up tonight."

Wendy looked through the appliqués. One was an axe, of course, with a jolly little sprig of holly and a red ribbon decorating the handle. The second was a monogram, green and red against a snow-white background: WBC. But—

"Oh! I'll take this one," Wendy said. "This makes it even perfecter! I love it the most."

"Aw!" Mabel said, grinning. She took back the one that had the words BIG SISTER running around the top and bottom arcs of the circle. "I'm glad you like it! Now open Dipper's present!"

"It's not so much," Dipper said, squirming. "But—here, I hope it's OK and not, uh, you know, too dorky or dumb." He handed Wendy a long, narrow box that had to be jewelry.

"I'll like it," Wendy assured him, unwrapping it. Then she gasped. "Oh, Dipper!"

"They're real twenty-four karat gold beads," Mabel said.

Wendy looked a little misty-eyed as she held the necklace up. The beads weren't large, but they gleamed when she draped them across her neck. "Dipper, man, I don't know what to say! This must've cost you a lot!"

Dipper shrugged. "Well . . . Mabel and I kinda got some unexpected cash back last month, so it really doesn't matter. Tell you about how the money came in later. But you deserve a necklace like that, and better—I wish every bead could be a diamond."

Mabel was bouncing on her knees. "Tell her the best part, brobro!"

"OK, OK, but I don't know if you'll like this part or not," Dipper said to Wendy. "The beads aren't strung on jewelry chain, but on, um, unicorn hair. See, Ford had some left over, so he treated it, and—well, it's a protective necklace. I know you don't like unicorns—"

"Eh, they're jerks," Mabel said. "But they owed us from when Grunkle Stan sheltered them, and they coughed up when Pacifica's maniac of a cousin was threatening us, so Grunkle Ford had lots of hair. I've got the one Grunkle Ford made for me still, an' I'm always gonna wear it in Gravity Falls."

"Well," Wendy said with a smile, "I don't 'zackly love unicorns, but I'll be glad to have some protection against, you know, the everyday weirdness we always run into up there. Thanks, Dip!"

Dipper coughed and reached into his pocket for a little ring box. "And this. Now, I hope you don't mind, but this can clip onto the necklace as a pendant. But if it looks, you know, too mushy or you don't want to explain it, or you just don't want to wear it—"

"Shut up, man," Wendy said with a giggle. She opened the tiny box and took out a gleaming gold heart. "It's so pretty! Of course I want to wear it," Wendy said happily. Then she said, "Oh! It's engraved!"

"On both sides!" Mabel said. "It's reversible!"

On one side—a tiny bag of ice. On the other—an axe. Dipper chuckled self-consciously. "Those mean, you know, so much to me. But the jeweler thought I was nuts," he mumbled.

Wendy darted a glance at the kitchen, but the parents were busy inside, out of sight, and arguing about how to tell if the turkey was really done. "Stand up, man," Wendy said softly as she got to her feet, too. To Mabel she added, "You are not gonna see this, right?"

"I'll cover my eyes," Mabel said, still kneeling, and she did—though she kept her fingers a little apart so she could peek through them.

"Merry Christmas, Dip," Wendy whispered, and she put her arms around Dipper and kissed him.

He didn't even have to stretch up or stand on his tiptoes. He hugged her, and her heavy braids felt a little strange. Then they broke the kiss, and with her cheek warm against his, Wendy said, "There's more where that came from, but later, OK?"

"Y-yeah," Dipper said. "O-OK."

From the kitchen, Mom called, "Everyone into the dining room if you're hungry!"

"Sounds great!" Wendy called back.

Mr. Pines called out from the kitchen: "Kids, you didn't even shower this morning. Go wash up, Mabel, Mason."

"Mason?" Wendy asked, her lips quirking into a smile.

Dipper looked as if he wanted to sink right through the floor. "Oh, man. . . ."

"I like it," Wendy whispered, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. "But to me, you're always gonna be my Big Dipper."

"Thanks—Red," Dipper whispered.

She made a playful face. "Now, I'm not sure that's gonna fly!"

"How about 'lumberjack girl'?" Dipper asked.

"Yeah—I could get used to that."

"Mason!"

"Going, Dad," Dipper said.

Mr. Pines came to the doorway and stood there chuckling. "Told you he had a crush on you."

Wendy laughed. "Well, I can see that he doesn't get his feelings hurt, and I understand stuff like that, you know. I'm a big girl."

"Now," Mr. Pines said as he led Wendy to the dining room, "about that engine you found. Does it have—"

And they went to the table still talking cars.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 3: On the Road Again for the First Time**

Despite Wendy's tentative plans, the twins (especially Mabel) insisted they wanted to get back to Gravity Falls as quickly as possible. So on December 26, at an eye-blurry five a.m., they got up and dressed, then stuffed the trunk of the Dart with their clothes, presents for their friends, and Wendy's presents that she was taking home, plus in the backseat a picnic hamper that the kids' mother insisted they take along in case they got hungry, or in case they wanted turkey sandwiches for lunch.

At 5:30, they were ready to go. They said their goodbyes, and then headed for the car. Crafty Dipper started to say, very slowly "Uh, shot—

"Shotgun!" Mabel yelled so loudly that—though they didn't learn about this until a month later, when their dad mentioned it—two doors down a nervous lady called the police to report a possible shooter loose in the neighborhood. "Hah! Called it, brobro!"

Which—heh, heh, heh—left Dipper with no alternative but to sit right next to the driver. "Fasten your belts, everybody," she said. "I've retrofitted with lap/chest restraints, but there's no airbags, so make sure your seatbelts are nice 'n tight."

"Dad is so impressed with your car," Mabel said, running a hand over the doorframe right below the window.

"Yeah, well, it was all I could afford, so I'm puttin' the sweat in to make it better. An' I gotta admit, I'm getting' to love it. OK, everybody buckled in? Here we go—take a right here for Oakland, and then we'll catch I-5 north most of the way. Looks good so far—no traffic hardly! That won't keep, but it's nice to start out without a crowd. Oh, Mabel—there's a baggie in the glove box full of quarters. We'll need that now an' then for tolls, so when I ask for some toll money, you count it out an' that'll save us a little time."

"Gotcha!" Mabel said. "When do we stop for breakfast?"

"Two hours, dude!" Wendy said with a laugh.

Mabel threw herself against the back of her seat, moaning. "Starvation stares me in the face! Oh, man! Where's that picnic basket Mom slipped into the car?"

"In the back," Wendy said, "and that's where it'll stay until we stop for lunch. C'mon, Mabel! We'll have breakfast about the time the sun comes up. I know about a pretty good place for waffles up in Sacramento, not far off the Interstate. Hold on for a couple hours, an' I'll stake you to the biggest breakfast you can eat."

"There goes all the money you set aside for the trip," Dipper said.

"Too late!" Mabel crowed. "I will accept that challenge!"

Wendy reached for her travel mug and took a swig of coffee. "Hope you guys got plenty of sleep last night," she said. "This is a long drive, an' I'll want you to talk to me to keep me alert."

"I slept pretty well," Dipper said. Mabel, how about—oh. She's snoring."

"Asleep already?" Wendy asked, sounding amused.

"Yeah, she always conks out pretty quick on the bus, too. She'll wake up after breakfast."

"Think she's really asleep?"

"Probably. She sounds like she is."

"Hm." Wendy lowered her voice and made it sultry and seductive. "Okay, so we're as good as alone. Hey, Dipper. When we get to the Falls, tell 'em all you're worn out and are goin' up to the attic to sleep. But really I'll meet you down in Ford's secret lab, an' you an' me will have sex like there's no tomorrow."

"Huh, what?" Dipper asked, his voice coming out like an alarmed mouse squeaking.

"Yep," Wendy said in her normal voice, "she's asleep all right. Just a test, Dipper. You know, I've been thinkin'. Mason Pines. That is not a bad name, dude! Kinda classy, in fact. Tell you what: you'll be Big Dipper to me always and forever, but when you start writin' your books, you can publish them as Mason Pines."

"You—you don't think it sounds dorky?" Dipper asked.

"Not at all, man! Hey, it's distinguished! Like Stanford."

"Um." Dipper took a deep breath. "Well—great-uncle Ford did tell me it was the name of a famous secret society, so it's good for a guy who likes mysteries and conspiracies and such. I don't know. I'll think about it. Maybe, if I ever really do write anything, it might be sort of my pen name. But for now, always keep it Dipper. OK, Lumberjack Girl?"

"Gotcha," Wendy said, chuckling. "And don't call me 'Red' too often. Just at those special moments, you know?"

Dipper squirmed a little. "Uh. Special. Right."

"Cool. Hey, dude, didja notice my hands?"

"Well—I saw them."

Wendy took her right hand off the wheel. "Feel my hand."

Dipper clasped it and asked, "How is it different—oh, hey, your pinky's coming in!"

"Yep. Prob'ly have five fingers on each hand by next summer, just like a grown-up. And I'll only be seventeen!"

"Well, it happens at different times for different people," Dipper said, reluctantly letting her put her hand back on the wheel. "Gideon Gleeful had ten fingers when he was only nine years old. Grunkle Stan said he's had 'em all since he was about twelve or so, and great-uncle Ford always had six on each hand. I mean, from birth."

"Yeah, I know. But Dad tells me we Corduroys usually get 'em about eighteen or so. It's gonna feel weird, though. Like when we went to that comic-book convention dimension and were in those kinda gross lumpy, heavy bodies, remember? We all had five fingers on each hand then. Seemed to me my pinkies were always itchin', but coulda been my imagination, 'cause they say you don't really notice the pinky that much when it really happens. What's wrong, Dip? You got awful quiet."

"Aw," he said, "you're growing up and I still feel like a little kid."

"Dude! C'mon, Dipper! You're a high-school student now! An' gonna be a track star! An' you're within, like six inches of catching up to me in height! Hey, man, don't do this to yourself. You just grow up at your own pace an' I'll be here for you. I think I'm gonna like the next couple years. I gotta tell ya, man, you're shapin' up to be one good-lookin' guy."

"You think so?" he asked hopefully. "Really? Don't kid me, please, Wendy."

Wendy said in her gentlest voice, "Would I lie to you? Yeah, dude! I mean, you're getting' those broad Pines shoulders. An' you know, I've seen pictures of both your great-uncles when they were, like, twenty or something, and between you an' me, they were both hot. You got nothin' to worry about. It's me that should be worryin'. You're gonna draw girls like honey draws bees in a year or two. Prob'ly forget all about me."

"Not in a million years," Dipper said. "Not ever. You're my Lumberjack Girl. And I—I mean, I—oh, you know what I mean. It's hard for me to say, but you know."

Wendy rubbed her arm up against him. "Yeah, I do, and back at ya, dude. Hey, I forgot to tell you—come January, I'm an official junior! Made up my two classes an' guess what? I had a straight A average for the term!"

"That's great!"

Wendy shrugged. "Well . . . I got a ways to go to pull up my overall GPA to a solid B, but I'm tryin'. I've decided I really do want to go to college."

"Where?

"Depends," she said. "On where you go."

"My heart just started beating faster," Dipper said.

"Aw. That's sweet."

They talked on through the darkness as they headed north on I-5, and Mabel slept serenely on, so Dipper had to take the first turn with counting out the tolls.

The sun rose about the time they passed a Sacramento city-limit sign, and not long after that, Wendy pulled off on a ramp, made a left turn, and in a quarter of a mile or less turned into the already crowded parking lot of a restaurant called Wunderfullest Waffles. "My dad stops at this place sometimes when he comes down to Sacramento on business, and he told me about it. Hope it's still as good as he claimed. Hey, Mabes! Time to eat!"

They went inside, and Wendy said, "I'm gonna hit the john first—don't blush, Dip, everybody has to pee from time to time! You, Mabel?"

"Yeah, I better," she said.

"I'll meet you here," Dipper told them, trying to sound casual, but he was all but jigging up and down himself, and as soon as they went into the women's room, he dashed for the men's.

Afterward they settled into a booth, Wendy ordered coffee, and Dipper surprised her by ordering a cup, too. "I'm fourteen," he said defensively. "I'm old enough."

"Juice for me!" Mabel told the waiter.

"What kind?" the young man asked.

"Orange, cranberry, and apple—one of each, handsome!"

When the waiter returned with their drinks, they were ready to order. Wendy wanted Belgian waffles—which inexplicably made Mabel chuckle, "Hot Belgian Waffles! Hah!"—topped with strawberries and kiwi fruit, Dipper went for a plain breakfast of scrambled eggs, home fries, and wheat toast, and Mabel wanted Swedish crepes stuffed with cream cheese and blackberries, a double helping of whipped cream on top, plus two poached eggs on white toast, turkey bacon, potatoes, and seasonal fruit. "I'll decide on dessert later, you doll, you," she said.

The waiter, smiling but looking faintly dazed, nodded and went to turn the order in.

Dipper manfully drank his coffee—though he did tip in some cream—without making a face. Wendy said, "Good coffee, huh, Dip?"

"Smooth," he agreed. _Should have practiced this at home,_ he thought. But the taste of the coffee wasn't too bad, just totally unfamiliar, and he admired the way Wendy took hers black. To nobody's particular surprise, halfway through her enormous meal Mabel decided she didn't really want dessert, and after forty minutes of eating and listening to her nom-nom-nomming her way through her pile of food, they were back on the road.

"Hey," Mabel said, more lively now that the sun was up, "let's have a singalong! How about we start with that golden oldie 'Straight Blanchin'?"

"Dipper," Wendy said, "I'll speed up and you push her out of the car."

"Kidding! I kid!" Mabel said, laughing her head off.

They did sing a little, and they told horrible jokes a little and laughed a lot in the next hours as they drove past towns with interesting names—Bluegum and Grapit, Wyo and Black Butte (which made Mabel laugh so hard she turned blue in the face), Weed and Yreka. When the sun climbed up to noon, Wendy suggested they break out the picnic basket, but Mabel pleaded, "Let's at least get into Oregon first!"

They passed through the strange little gap between the sign that told them they were leaving California and the "Welcome to Oregon" one—Mabel said, "Here's where Blendin Blandin stopped our bus that time and asked us for help, remember?"—and then were over the state line.

So Wendy turned off at the exit for Siskiyou Summit, found a pull-over, and they had sort of a quick tailgate lunch—though they had to put on their jackets, because up there it was a breezy 48 degrees, with gray clouds rolling in from the west. "Better get set to haul ass," Wendy said, studying the sky. "There's already snow on the ground in the Falls, and I don't wanna get caught in a blizzard. Don't have my snow tires on yet." She sipped steaming tea from the thermos that the twins' mother had supplied and said, "Man, your mom's the best! I flat love me some peppermint on a cool day!"

They got back on the freeway, made a bathroom stop a little later past Ashland, and then drove steadily north to Eugene, where they turned east. Now patchy snow streaked the ground, lingering under trees and in the lee of houses, and the western flanks of the Cascade Mountains were white. It was still another five hours and some-odd minutes to Gravity Falls on that route. Sunset caught them around 4:30, and by 5:30 full dark had fallen and a light snow had started to swirl down. "Dipper, call Stan an' tell him we'll be there in forty-five minutes or so," Wendy said a few miles farther along. "Ask him how the weather is."

Dipper made the call and heard Stan's raspy, "Yah?"

He greeted his great-uncle and gave him the message, and Stan said, "Aw, let me see . . . dum de doo de dum da dum . . . The weather station says it's twenty-nine degrees here, with like ten-mile-per-hour wind, an', just a second—" Dipper heard the creak of a door and realized that Stan was in the Shack—"OK, it's snowin' but not heavy. 'Sposed to have a storm later tonight, though. Tell Wendy to drive careful and you should get here before the worst hits. Maybe then you can help us solve the latest mystery."

"OK, I'll tell her—wait, what?"

"Tell ya all about it when ya get here. Hey, let me talk to Mabel a second, will ya?"

"Uh—sure." Dipper passed the phone to his sister. "Grunkle Stan wants to talk to you."

"Thanks, bro! Grunkle Stan! Can't wait to see you! What? What is it? Oh, don't do that to me! No, really, what is it? Oh, come on! Pleeeeease? Hello?" She handed the phone back. "He hung up! He just told me he had the greatest surprise any of us has ever seen in our whole entire lives, and then he hung up and wouldn't tell me what it is!"

"Wouldn't be a surprise if he did, Mabes," Wendy said. "What's the weather report, Dip?"

Dipper repeated Stan's comments and his warning.

She laughed. "I kinda have to drive careful, but so far it's real dry snow, just blowin' off the pavement, mostly. Betcha five bucks we roll in at six forty-five, car clock time."

"I'll take that action!" Mabel said. "I'll bet it'll be six-thirty five or earlier!"

"You're on, dude."

Maybe it was because she was the one driving, but as Wendy predicted, they pulled into the Gravity Shack parking lot at precisely 6:45 by the dash clock. "Oh, man! This is a total ripoff," Mabel groused, but she paid up.

"Let's get our stuff out after we've said hello," Dipper said. They piled out of the car, stretched, and walked past a shiny black Lincoln. "Huh," Dipper said. "Great-uncle Ford must've finally got his driver's license renewed. I guess this is his car."

No one else seemed to be there—the golf cart, covered in a tarp for the winter, Soos's Jeep, the tour tram, and Melody's liittle hatchback were the only other vehicles visible.

Mabel ran ahead, yanked the front door open, and yelled, "We're here!"

"Sweetheart!" As Dipper and Wendy came in, they saw Grunkle Stan holding Mabel up off the floor—and grunting. "What, aren't ya ever gonna stop growin'?" he complained, though he was grinning. "Wendy, glad ya made it there an' back OK. How's it hangin', knucklehead?"

"Fine," Dipper said with quiet dignity. Then—he couldn't help himself—he hugged Stan. "I'm so glad to be here with you guys again!"

Ford loomed behind him. "I've been worried," he said, hugging first Mabel, then Dipper. "The weather report's calling for heavy snow. Wendy, it might be better for you to stay over here tonight rather than go back to your house. I mean, it's off that secondary road, and you might get stuck there."

"Sure, I'll stay," she said. "Got an extra change of clothes that I took just in case. Guess I can sack out on the sofa."

"Hey," Dipper said, "the attic has, uh. Two. You know. Uh. Beds." He felt his face getting hot. "Uh, I mean, Mabel and Wendy could—"

"Soos's grandmother has gone back to Mexico until spring comes again," Ford said with a smile. "Her room's available. Stan and I will go back to Fiddleford's house. He's given us permission to use one wing as our home here permanently."

"That your car outside, great-uncle Ford?" Dipper asked.

"Yeah," Stan growled. "If he can keep it outa the ditch!"

"I'm doing fine, Stanley," Ford said with dignity to match Dipper's. "Driving a car is really like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how—"

"Ya don't fall off so much," Stan finished.

Mabel tugged at his sleeve. "Grunkle Stan! The surprise!" she said.

Grinning, Stan held a finger to his lips. "Quiet, then, an' follow me."

He led them to Soos and Melody's bedroom, tapped softly on the door, and said, "You guys decent?"

Soos opened the door, his big face shining with happiness. "Dawgs! It's so good to see you! Come on in, but be quiet." He was holding his laptop, and on the screen Dipper got a glimpse of Abuelita's face—they had evidently been Skyping.

He and the others crowded in. Against a small mountain of pillows, Melody was sitting propped in bed—cradling a baby in her arms.

"Ooh!" Mabel said, jumping up and down like a five-year-old. She hugged Soos. "Your baby came!"

"Dude!" Wendy said. "When did that happen?"

In a soft voice, Melody said, "He came yesterday afternoon, two weeks early. Stanley and Stanford drove over to Hirschville and brought a doctor right out to the Shack, because I didn't have time for the trip in to the hospital."

Soos swelled visibly with pride. "But it was, like, no sweat once he got here, y'know, dawgs. Less than half an hour! Melody was great, and it was, like, a real easy delivery! Mabel, Dipper, Wendy, this is our son. His name's Jesús Stanley Ramirez."

"Yeah, tried ta talk him outa that," Stanley rumbled.

"He's got a Christmas birthday," Wendy said, smiling from ear to ear. "How cool is that? Congratulations, you guys. Melody, you're, like, glowing, and just look at that handsome kid! He looks terrific!"

"Want to hold him?" Melody asked.

"Me first!" Stan said. He picked up the baby—so small that one of his big hands could cradle it comfortably, though he carefully held him in his arms—and looking down at the child, he said, "Aw! Hey, little guy, a whole lotta great things've happened in this Shack. But I think you're the greatest one yet."

* * *

 

**Chapter 4: Holiday Mystery**

They unloaded Wendy's car, Ford and Stan left before the snow really started hard—Stan said, "Tomorrow they'll plow the streets, an' I'll drive us back—got snow tires on the El Diablo. Then Dipper an' Ford an' me hafta have a council of war about the crazy stuff that started last week."

He refused to tell them anything else. Wendy managed to get a call through to her dad, though he was in an area with very spotty cell service—but she talked to him long enough to learn that he and the boys had buttoned up for the night and he said, "We'll ride out the storm, baby girl. You just keep yourself safe. See you next week!"

Then—dinner. The problem was that Melody wasn't well enough to cook, Soos was no great hand in the kitchen, Dipper was pretty much limited to grilled cheese sandwiches, and nobody wanted to risk eating whatever Mabel might come up with. Wendy saved the day. She rummaged in the pantry and fridge, then said, "OK, if everybody can stomach it, we got all the ingredients for chili here."

Everyone was fine with that. While Mabel went to gossip with Waddles—the pig had been sound asleep up in the attic—Dipper volunteered to help. He chopped onions, browned some diced steak in a deep pot, opened up two huge cans of chopped tomatoes—"How about beans?" he asked, and Wendy said, "We're makin' chili, dude, not bean stew"—and in with the steak he stirred the onions first, then a pungent blend of spices that Wendy had mixed, and finally the tomatoes.

Meanwhile Wendy had rolled up her sleeves, rolled out some dough, and patted out tortillas, which she popped onto a big square grill as the chili came to a simmer. "Hope this isn't too spicy for Melody," she said.

"Hey, she likes spicy stuff," Dipper told her.

"Yeah, but now she's nursin'. What a mom eats affects the taste of her milk, you know—Sheesh, stop blushing at stuff like that, Dipper! It's a natural function."

Dipper checked with Soos, who checked with Melody, who said chili might be too potent, but she was really craving scrambled eggs and bacon. "Breakfast for dinner!" Mabel yelled as she came down the stair and into the kitchen. "Woo-hoo! My favorite! Dip an' I got this covered!"

Dipper scrambled a couple of eggs with cheese, while Mabel fried bacon—Wendy offered, but Mabel said, "Nah, I eat turkey bacon myself, but I got no objection to the real thing as long as it doesn't come off a personal friend!" She also popped down the toast.

When everything was done, Mabel put the eggs, bacon, and toast on a plate, buttered the toast, and poured a big glass of milk. "Oh, wait!" she ran to the counter and brought back a sunny-colored orange. "For Vitamin C!" she said.

Soos put the plate, drink, and fruit on a tray, added his bowl of chili, and took everything into the bedroom and ate there with her, while Wendy, Mabel, and Dipper sat at the table. "Hot tamales!" Mabel exclaimed after one spoonful. "Wendy, this is great!"

"Thanks," Wendy said, grinning. "It's just, like, basic chili, you know. OK for you, Dipper?"

"Wonderful!" Dipper said, fighting back tears and wondering why his breath didn't combust when he said the word aloud.

"So tomorrow we gotta give our grunkles their gifts," Mabel said. "An' if we can get through, we've got some stuff for a few other people."

"Yeah, if the roads are clear enough I'll want to go over to our house to make sure everything's OK there. One time in a big snow a tree fell on the roof. I woke up in a shower of snow comin' into my bedroom."

"I don't think this storm's going to be that heavy," Dipper said.

__

* * *

 

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Friday, December 27, 2013**

T _he TV keeps reminding us that the snow and cold are dangerous. I think I agree. We got up about daylight to find about fourteen inches of snow on the ground—though in places there were drifts three feet deep. At least it had stopped coming down._

_Soos said the county plows would be around sooner or later, but he wanted to take the snow blower out and clear the drive down to the highway—he's antsy with a newborn in the house, I think. I volunteered to do it._

_"You sure, Dipper?" he asked. "It might be kinda heavy for you. Tell you what, dude, bundle up and come on out with me and you can try it, see if you can handle the machine."_

_So I got into my heavy fleece-lined winter jacket and put Wendy's trapper hat on—we had swapped again back in August, and I'd brought it with me—and got into my boots. I felt like one of those little kids you see whose moms bundle them up so much that if they fall, they're like turtles on their backs. It all felt pretty good, because it was twenty-two degrees outside._

_Anyway, Soos led me out to the shed off behind the Shack, got out the snow blower, and showed me the levers. "The auger's set for, like, a gravel surface, so that's OK," he said. "Now, this lever on the left will start the blower, you know, blowin'. It shoots out over there to the right. The machine clears a twenty-eight inch wide strip, so you'll have to go down the drive an' then come back an' maybe down one more time to clear a way wide enough for a car. This one on the right makes the wheels go. This one controls the speed. Let's put it at three, but if it's real difficult we might push it up to six. But remember, if you release your grip on the lever here, the wheels won't turn, but the blower will still be goin'. Now, this is the most important: Don't pull this lever all the way down, 'cause you do NOT want to put it in reverse, dawg." He laughed. "Trust me on that. I speak from experience."_

_He turned on the choke, primed the engine, and tugged the rope. It fired up first try—Soos does take good care of his tools!_

_Soos started to clear a path around the side yard of the Shack, with me following along in his wake, and when we got to the parking lot, he turned it over to me. "OK, Dipper, I'm just gonna walk down the drive, 'cause it's curvy, you know, an' I'll sort of stomp out the guidelines on the left an' right—wait a minute, kill the engine."_

_I did—it's real loud—and over the sudden silence, we could hear a heavy growling sound. "Huh!" Soos said. "That's the county plow! They're real early! Wait here." He stomped down the left border of the drive, out of sight around the curve, but in about two minutes he came stomping back on the other side. "That's thoughtful!" he said. "Sheriff Blubs had Mr. Cornwell come scrape out Gopher Road first, 'cause he knew Melody had just had her baby! Only thing, dude, now you gotta go through the ridge that the county plow pushed up. Let me start it again, an' you can go."_

_He started the blower, and as it rolled forward, I followed along pretty slowly, guiding the wheels and sending a big thick jet of snow off to the right. "I got it!" I yelled to Soos, and he went back inside._

_When I came to the first big curve, though, I had a little trouble. All of a sudden someone reached around me and grabbed the handles and helped me make the turn. It was Wendy! "Thanks!" I yelled._

_"No prob! I'll just step in when you need a little more force on the curves!"_

_But I got pretty tired, to tell the truth, by the time we got to the road and I fought the blower through that big three-foot ridge that the county plow had left behind. "Let me try," Wendy said. "Never used one of these!"_

_I gratefully turned it over to her. She got the thing turned around, got the other half of the ridge taken care of, and then we went back, widening the lane of clear driveway. I helped Wendy on the turns this time, though I think she really could have done it on her own. Then one more time down on the other side, and this time we came back in the cleared space and made good time. Anyway, back in the parking lot we managed to clear out some space behind her car and behind Soos's Jeep. All in all, the work had taken a couple of hours._

_We went back in for some hot chocolate. At about eleven we heard Grunkle Stan's car come rumbling into the parking lot on its heavy snow tires, and Stan and Ford came in. Before anything else, we gave them their presents—we'd given Soos and Melody's theirs the night before—and they really seemed to like the toboggan caps Mabel had made for them, red for Stan, blue for Ford—"'Cause blue's a cool color," she explained, "and Grunkle Ford's one for cool logic. Red for Stan, 'cause sometimes logic's not enough, and you got to see red and kick butt, like him!"'_

_I'd given Stan a GPS that worked by satellite, so he could even take it out on the Stan O' War II, and I gave Ford a tablet, which really amazed him. "You mean I can put whole books on this and read them? How many?"_

_I told him about a zillion, and he shook his head. "There has indeed been progress over thirty years!" he said._

_They put off giving us their gifts—I don't know why. But then Stan said, "OK, knuckleheads, gather 'round the table. Some weird stuff's been goin' down, and maybe you can help us get to the bottom of it!"_

_Ford tapped Stan on the shoulder. "Can you fill in the kids on this? If you'll let me borrow your car, I'll see if I can go get you-know-what. Surely the roads will have been cleared that far by now."_

_With a sigh, Grunkle Stan handed over the keys. "If there's so much as one dent in that car when you come back," he warned, "you're responsible for it!"_

_"I'm much better at driving now," Ford told him. "There's been nothing serious since that unfortunate penguin incident."_

_"I keep tellin' ya, it was a nun!" Stan shouted. And when Mabel and I looked shocked, they both laughed and we realized it was their way of joking. So Ford went off, and Stan said, "Now, listen up. The trouble all started—"_

 

* * *

The trouble all started, Stan told them, about a week before Christmas. "People began missin' stuff," he explained. "I mean strange stuff—a backscratcher, a kitchen drain strainer, a medical thermometer, single socks or gloves, junk like that. It makes no sense! Nothin' really worth anything. But the disturbing thing, the thing that bothers everybody is that some of this junk is disappearin' inside people's houses. People's locked houses!"

"Could it be animals?" Dipper asked.

Stan shrugged. "Ah, who knows? I'm inclined to say no, 'cause f'r instance Lazy Susan had a couple CDs taken right out from her bedroom, plastic cases left open on the floor, windows locked, front and back door of her house locked. No mouse holes anywhere. How could an animal get in and do that and get out again?"

Wendy listened with her head tilted to one side. "Sounds like, what do you call 'em, Dipper? Poultrygeists?"

"Hah!" Mabel laughed. "The ghosts of chickens! She pulled her hands inside her sleeves, waved her arms, and said, "Bawk-bawk-bawk! Boo!"

"Poltergeists," Dipper corrected. "And it means 'noisy ghosts' in German. I think. But that's not normal poltergeist behavior. I mean, they usually don't steal stuff. It's more like what a pack rat would do."

"Or a blue jay!" Wendy said. "Oh, man, Dad once found a blue jay nest, an' it was, like, crammed full of quarters that the birds were stealin' from the car wash downtown!"

"That would be a Steller's Jay," Dipper said.

"Thank you for that critical bird ID, Ford!" Stan grumbled. "Yeah, yeah, jays'll steal food an' pretty much anything shiny that ain't nailed down, but they can't open locked doors!"

"They came down the chimney!" Mabel said.

"Guess again. Some of these places don't even have chimneys. Anyhow, Ford says there's some kinda—" Stan waved his hands—"residual anomaly fields where stuff's been stolen. So that means it's up his alley, not some birdwatcher's. Somethin' sneaky supernatural's snatching stupid stuff."

"Say that six times, real fast!" Mabel challenged.

Grinning, Stan rapped off, "That that that that that that that! Seven times, ya little brat! Gotcha!"

"Pssss!" Mabel said, imitating the sound of steam. "I've just been Grunkle-burned!"

"Wait, wait," Dipper said. "If nothing important's being taken, why the big worry?"

"Some of the local citizens are sayin' they're gonna start packin' heat," Stan said. "An' antsy as they get about somebody bustin' into their homes, me and Ford are afraid somebody's gonna plug his wife, or her husband, or their kid, by mistake. Ford thinks we should see what paranormal influences are at work here an' try to settle 'em."

"You up for this, Dipper?" Wendy asked, grinning. She had undone her braids, and her beautiful red hair looked a lot more natural—though the kinks from the braids were still falling out—and she took Dipper's pine-tree hat off her head. "You might want to swap out temporarily while you're on the case, dude. This is, like, your official sleuthing hat."

"I'm gonna be his assistant!" Mabel said, pounding both fists on the table. Then she put on a British accent: "I say, Pines, you never cease to amaze me! Astonishin' work, your Dippity deductions, eh what?

"Thank you, Dr. Watsmabel," Dipper said. He took off the trapper hat and accepted his own back from Wendy. "Yeah, let's give it a go."

"There's Ford," Stan said, tilting his head. He winced. "He always grinds the gears comin' up that hill!"

The car stopped in the cleared drive, and a moment later they heard the gift-shop door bang open—though the Shack was closed for winter, neither Stan nor Soos was big on keeping all the doors locked—and a minute later, Pacifica Northwest, bundled up in a white faux-fur coat, came running in, her cheeks pink with cold. "Oh, my God!" she squealed. "There you are! Mabel, smile at me! Oh, you look so much better without the braces!"

The two girls hugged, and Pacifica said shyly, "I wanted to be here last night, but we live three miles from the city limits and six miles from here, so Dad was worried about me being out during a snowstorm. Hi, Wendy!"

"'Sup, girl?" Wendy asked with a grin.

But Pacifica had turned to Dipper. "Stand up and let me look at you! You're so tall! And I think your shoulders are wider! Give me a hug?"

"Awkward friend hug," Dipper agreed, smiling. "But no pats."

Pacifica even laughed a little at that, but the two exchanged a little hug—and Dipper noticed that Pacifica was, well, filling out as she grew, too. Especially up top. "I've got a couple of presents for you," she said. "Dr. Pines told me he'd bring them in. It's not much, but when I heard you'd be visiting, I told mom and dad I just had to get you a little something!"

Mabel said, "Hah! Wait right here." She ran back to her bedroom—the guest room, actually, off the parlor—and returned in a moment. "Here you go," she said, handing Pacifica what looked like a Christmas card in a lavender envelope. "From both of us."

Ford came in, holding a mesh bag with two wrapped presents in it. "Uh, Pacifica—" He put the two boxes on the table. One, wrapped in pink, was clearly for Mabel, and the other, in blue with a pine-tree silhouette as a pattern, had to be Dipper's. "Here they are, but—well, feel them."

"What?" Pacifica picked up the boxes, looked shocked, shook them, and then said, "No!" She opened the boxes herself.

"You gave us empty boxes?" Mabel asked. "Well, we can use them—"

"They weren't empty! I wrapped them myself!" Pacifica wailed, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Someone stole your presents! From inside the boxes!"

"Sounds like a job for Mr. Mystery," Stan rumbled. "Ford, Dipper, Mabel—you, too, Wendy, if you wanna get in on this crazy thing—let's get started."

* * *

 

**Chapter 5: Cold Case**

Dipper excelled at charts, plans, and lists, so he took dictation from Ford, who read from an untidy bunch—not even a stack—of notes, some on paper napkins, the inside of paper matchbooks, the back of a gasoline bill, but most written in his pocket notebook. A little later, after Stan and Ford had left, he, Mabel, and Pacifica gathered around the coffee table in the parlor and pondered the list.

What Dipper had written down looked like a crazy person's version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas":

_1 old can opener from the diner_

_2 of Pacifica's presents (boxes were unwrapped, presents removed!)_

_3 gloves (from 3 different pairs)_

_4 cd's (from Lazy Susan, Tambry' parents, and Mayellen McGucket)_

_5 single socks, no complete pair_

_6 various household items from Mayor Tyler's house (backscratcher, sink strainer, 3 spoons, a baby pacifier?_

_7 things from the sheriff's office: 5 paper clips (one of Deputy Durland's jobs is keeping an inventory of them), the light bulb from Daryl Blubs's desk lamp, and Blub's old Deputy Sheriff badge_

…and it went on, twelve items in all. "I don't see any pattern here," Dipper said, chewing on his pen.

"I do!" Mabel yelled. She had been kneeling beside the coffee table, concentrating intently, and she bounced on her knees. "Look—the first thing is numbered one, the second one is numbered two, the third one—"

"I'll make a note of that," Dipper said dryly. He sighed and leaned back. "Well, until we can get around and question all these people, we're kind of at a standstill. Except for you, Pacifica. What can you tell us about how the stuff from those boxes could have been taken?"

"I don't _know_!" Pacifica said, sounding genuinely upset. "I wrapped the boxes myself, up in mom's studio. Then I kept them in my room for a few days—"

"How many days?" Dipper asked.

"Well, from the day before Christmas Eve until this morning. See, I heard from Stan that you guys were coming up, let's see, it was a week ago last Monday—"

"That would be December sixteenth," muttered Dipper.

"How did you come you talk to Stan?" Mabel asked.

"Uh—well, I, you know, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I dropped in here at the Mystery Shack, and he was visiting, and we sort of got to talking—it doesn't matter!"

Mabel playfully punched her arm. "The Shack closes at the end of November! I bet you come around here all the time because you miss everybody!"

Pacifica looked a bit ticked off. "What if I do? I like Melody and Soos! And I remember how Stan took me in during never-mind-about-all-that!"

"Yeah," Mabel said, smiling. "You know something, you _did_ look good even in a potato sack!"

"Well," Pacifica said with a shy smile in return, "the sweater you made did help."

"The llama," came an echoing, disembodied voice from the heat vents. "Nature's greatest warrior! Fascinating."

Wendy came walking into the parlor and yelled into the heat register, "Shut up, wax head dude! Nobody cares!" She settled into Stan's old chair—the others were kneeling around the coffee table that Soos had made himself from an aluminum replica of a UFO. Yeah, replica, that's the ticket. "Any headway, guys?" Wendy asked.

"We got a list!" Mabel said.

"Well," Wendy said, rolling her eyes, "that's something!"

"Yeah, but until we can go visit the robbery victims and question them, we're at a standstill," Dipper told her.

"Huh. Hey, Dipper, Soos says I can take his Jeep to go check on our house. It's got four-wheel drive, so I'm pretty sure we can make it out an' back. Wanna come with me?"

Dipper jumped to his feet. "Uh, sure! I'll go get my coat and boobs. Boots! Not—but boots. I'll go get my—be right back."

He practically whizzed out of the room and up the stairs. Pacifica sighed. "I guess you win, Wendy."

"It's not a competition, Pacifica," Wendy said. "Anyhow, 'round school I hear you're pretty tight with that Adam guy."

"What's this?" Mabel asked. "OMG! Pacifica! Dish!"

Pacifica looked down at her left shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, well, I have sort of a steady boyfriend. Adam Beedle. I don't think you know him."

"He's in the tenth grade," Wendy said.

"An older man!" Mabel gushed.

"He's nice," Pacifica told her, turning pink. "I mean, he's not rich or anything. He's OK, his family's like comfortable? His dad owns four or five garages in the north part of the state. Adam's sort of, well, a little bit—" she sighed. "He's a nerd, OK? Wears glasses, is kinda awkward and bashful, real smart in math, just now learning to dance. Oh, go ahead, say it!"

"Say what?" Mabel asked. "He sounds dreamy!" Her eyes narrowed fiercely, and she held up her hands, wriggling her fingers, and her voice became crafty and faintly evil: "Raw material to shape and mold to your will!"

"I mean he sounds like _Dipper_ ," Pacifica said. "Oh God, I know what exactly what I did there. At first it was just because of that, but Adam's really sweet and shy, and he's got a great sense of humor—"

Later, as Wendy drove the Jeep down a back road that had been scraped, but not as well as those in town, Dipper, sitting beside her, said, "You know, when I came downstairs I heard some of what Pacifica was saying."

"Really, dude?" Wendy asked, smiling.

"Yeah." He sighed. "She was talking about me, wasn't she?"

Wendy stifled a chuckle. "Well, your name did come up."

"My name—you didn't—"

"I didn't tell her your real name," Wendy reassured him. "I mean the subject of you came up, is all."

Dipper sniffed and shook his head. "Poor girl. I know what it's like to have a hopeless crush."

"Yeah? Who is it? Tell me and I'll kill her."

"It's you!" Dipper said in surprise.

"Dude," Wendy said, "wish you hadn't told me that. I said I'd kill her! Now I'll have to jump in the Bottomless Pit or something!"

"Aw," Dipper said.

"But I won't. 'Cuz it's _not_ hopeless, Dipper," she said. "Not by a great big long shot!"

They got to the driveway—or the place where the driveway should have been. It was totally buried under three-foot drifts of snow. Wendy got the Jeep off to one side as much as she could—"Not a problem, hardly any traffic comes this far up the hill," she said—and then she rummaged in the back. "Here ya go," she held up something that to Dipper looked like a pair of misshapen tennis racquets. "Gonna need these."

"Snowshoes?" Dipper asked. "I've never worn them."

"It's a knack," Wendy said. "Let me get mine on, then I'll help you." She took two pairs of ski poles from the back of the Jeep, too, and then carried everything up over the packed ramp of snow left by the snowplow and onto the first soft drift beyond. "C'mon, but be careful not to fall."

Dipper had his boots on, but even so he slipped and flailed a little. Wendy had already knelt and fastened her own snowshoes. "OK," she said. "C'mon down to me, where it's a little bit more level. Give me your right foot first. Now, slide your toe beneath this toe strap. Let me tighten it. Now the heel strap ratchets, like this, see?" Dipper felt the strap constricting as the _rickata-rackata_ sound of the ratchet clacked out. "Last, we tighten and buckle the instep strap. On good enough? Feel OK?"

Dipper lifted and waggled his foot. "Yeah, I guess."

"Now I'll do the other one."

Looking at his Lumberjack Girl kneeling in the snow, her head down as she put on his left snowshoe, Dipper muttered, "Wendy, I'm glad it's not hopeless."

"Me, too, man," she said almost absently. She stood, dusting snow from her knees, and handed him two of the ski poles. "See if these need adjusting. No? OK, let me get turned around." She sort of waddled in place until they both faced the cabin, downhill from them and about a quarter of a mile away. "Now, use the poles to balance with. What you're gonna do, you dig the uphill side of the shoes into the snow. That gives you traction. I'll go first. It's easier if you follow in my footsteps. Watch me an' do what I do. Remember to step big."

She went on ahead, using the poles and striding confidently. She wore a parka and a ski cap, but her red hair swung free, and her jeans were—Dipper could not help noticing—tight over her bottom. Which also looked tight.

Enough of that! Dipper pulled Wendy's trapper's hat down on his head and awkwardly followed Wendy, stepping high and slipping a little with each stride, but managing not to fall over.

"Looks OK," she said as they neared her house, her words drifting off in silvery plumes of vapor. "No trees on top of it, anyhow. Wind must've been from this direction, 'cause there's less snow on the roof than I expected. Not near enough to cave it in, so I won't try to clear it. If it hasn't melted by next week when Dad and the boys get back, they'll take care of that. Let's go in an' make sure no pipes have busted."

She unlocked the front door, they left the snowshoes and poles on the porch, and stepped inside. It was cold, but not frigid.

"Never gets too bad," Wendy said. "Dad dug a real deep basement an' hit a warm spring. He capped it off an' piped the water around an' around the basement ceiling. It circulates an' keeps the house from really getting' cold except when it's way below zero outside. Let me do a quick check."

She opened a door onto a stairway leading down, clicked on the lights, and said, "Electricity works! Great! Be back in a sec."

Dipper stood by the open stairway door and felt moderately warm air drifting up. After a moment or two, Wendy appeared at the base of the stair and climbed back up, turning off the light at the top of the stair. "It's OK down there," she said, closing the door behind her. "I need to check the bathrooms an' kitchen, to see if the pipes up here froze."

They had not. "That's good," Wendy said. "I remember one time the kitchen drain pipe froze an' busted, and the first time we tried to wash dishes, we found ourselves standin' in, like, ankle-deep water. What's the forecast?"

"Um," Dipper said, taking out his phone and checking the app. "Says here high of thirty-six today, low of thirty-two tonight, then warmer over the next few days. Not gonna get below freezing again at least through next Wednesday."

"Great," Wendy said. "No worries, then. No busted pipes, water runnin', electricity still on. We came through this one all right."

"Have you talked to your dad lately?" Dipper asked.

"Called him this mornin'. He an' the boys are campin' up on Kittikaw Ridge. It's, like, eighteen degrees way up there. Better them than me! I think I've finally graduated from Apocalypse Training."

She sat on the living-room sofa and patted the cushion beside her. "Come and rest a little before we hafta wade out through the snow again."

Dipper sat beside her. She took off her cap, and he took off the fur trapper's hat. "Wendy?" he said, nervously.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, dude?"

"Uh—" He took a deep breath. "Lean toward me."

She whispered, "I thought you'd never ask."

They kissed, and then they held each other on the sofa, nuzzling and smooching. "You're something, Red," he said with a chuckle.

She rubbed a hand over his chest. "Yeah, Big Dipper? You think I had all this planned out 'cause of Pacifica, huh?"

"You don't have to worry about me and Pacifica."

"That's good to know." She kissed him again. "Now, don't get all stirred up, OK? This is real nice an' all, but we still have to wait."

"I know, I know," he said, caressing her cheek. He hesitated for a moment. "Has Mabel, uh, told you about her romances in high school?"

"Li'l bit."

"Yeah, well, in October she went out with this one creep named Dougal something-or-other, just to the movies. He's sixteen and has his own car. It was just a first date, you know, but he insisted they sit in the back row and she told me he started to get, uh, handsy. She had to belt him one, and she walked home alone. Mom and Dad don't know anything about what happened, and I'm not sure she'd even tell you, so don't let her know what I said, OK? Anyway, I—you know I'd like to—to show you how much—and I'd love to—but I'm not gonna be that guy, Wendy. I promise you. I'll never be that guy."

"Yeah," Wendy said, squeezing his hand. "I believe you. But you know, Dipper, we're comin' closer to a time when we'll hafta make some real serious decisions."

"But for now—" he sighed deeply—"you're sixteen, I'm only fourteen. It would be too weird."

"Yeah. Thanks for understanding, Dipper."

"OK, but I'm gonna say it." He fell silent for a few moments. "I'm really gonna say it. Now." He took a very deep breath. "I love you, Lumberjack Girl."

She kissed him tenderly and whispered, "I'm getting' there, Dipper. I'm gettin' there."

They both agreed after about two more minutes of snuggling that it would be the best idea to head back to the Shack. They went outside, Wendy locked the door, and then she looked around. "Son of a—biscuit! The ski poles are gone!"

"What?"

It was true. Both sets had vanished.

Most puzzling of all, there were no footprints anywhere around the porch, except for their own snowshoe tracks coming in. "Man," Wendy grumbled, "Soos is gonna be so upset with me for losin' his ski poles!"

"How much do they cost?" Dipper asked.

"Oh, I dunno. These were just sorta average adjustable ones. Like thirty bucks a set, I guess."

"OK," Dipper told her. "Let's stop at Hernandez Hardware and I'll buy replacements."

"Dude, that's like sixty bucks!"

Dipper looked sheepish. "On the way back to town, I'll tell you how Mabel and I kinda got to be temporarily rich."

"Rich?" Wendy asked in a suspicious voice. "Don't you dare tell Pacifica that! But you know, money don't mean a lot to me, so I'd fall in love with you even without it. Maybe not as fast, but still."

"You're kidding me, Red," he said with a grin.

Wendy laughed. "You're gettin' pretty sharp there, Big Dipper. Hey, how about singin' a song for me? The Lamby Lamby song!"

"Aw, man, no!" But despite his words, Dipper started to sing—and when he did, he noticed that his voice had deepened to a light baritone. Funny, but the change had been so gradual that he'd never thought about it before. "Well, who wants a lamby, lamby, lamby?"

Wendy crooned, "I do! I do!"

And he choked up with happiness and couldn't sing another word.

All in all, even though the mystery seemed even more mysterious than ever—he felt good on the trip back. Very, very good.

* * *

 

**Chapter 6: Frustrating Developments**

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Getting back from Wendy's house uphill to the Jeep was sort of awkward without the poles to steady me. Wendy was fine, but even with the snowshoes on and following in the track we'd made on the way in, I slipped down twice, not hard—snow was too deep for that—but I have to say with all the snow I took down my collar, I quickly got over the effects of all that, I guess, light-weight making out? Whatever we had done, I got cooled down pretty fast._

_Mabel, I know you've agreed never to look at my Journals without my permission, so I suspect you read them all the time. If you're reading this, I will not answer any questions at all, except, yes, we smooched a little. But that's it! So don't ask me!_

_Anyway, as Wendy drove us to the hardware store, I told her about the big surprise Mabel and I got the Wednesday before Halloween—_

* * *

 

"It's a letter for us!" Mabel yelled, tearing through the house and waving a heavyweight envelope. She tossed the rest of the family mail on the front hall table, though about half of it landed in the floor. She jumped over it. "Broseph! Where are you?"

"Right here," Dipper said from the living room, where he perched on the sofa, his laptop on his knees, the TV on, a can of Pitt Peach Soda at his elbow and BABBA's new album pumping on his headphones.

He was multitasking. As Mabel came speeding in, he quickly changed the website he'd been looking at, and the beautiful redheads lounging by swimming pools went away, replaced by a dramatically-designed site called THE ANOMALY CONSPIRACY: WHAT THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW! The page background was jet black, the font was green and purple, and all in all it was more like a conspiracy to make your eyes feel as if they'd popped out of your head and rolled around in sand for a while.

Mabel bounced on the sofa and Dipper rescued his soda just in time, then killed his MP3 player. "Hey!" Mabel said, glancing at the TV. "I didn't think you watched 'Romances and Regrets.' It's, like, the oldest soap opera around!" Milton and Martha! Have they learned yet if the dingoes ate their baby? It went missing in, like, 1963! Poor little Pewsey!"

"Eww!" Dipper picked up the remote and killed the TV, too. "Had it on for the weather earlier and didn't notice the show had changed. What's up with you, Sis?"

"Look-a look-a look-a!" She held up the envelope, flapping it so hard that Dipper couldn't quite tell if it was a letter of if she had strangled a dove and was trying to shake its feathers off. "This came for us all the way from England! See? It has these weird queeny stamps on it. And it's addressed to "Mistress Mabel Pines and Master Mason Pines. Ha! I'm a mistress! Wanna read it with me, Master Mason?"

"Huh. Not interested."

"It's from Llyr's of London! How do you pronounce two l's? Luh-lyr's! Like luh-lama. That's not right! Is it? I'll have to ask that wax head next summer. Anyway, it's Llyr's Assurance Company! What's an assurance company?"

Dipper sat up straight. "Wait, let me see." He took the letter and opened it. He glanced sideways at his sister. "Ready?"

She crossed her fingers. "Let it be a marriage proposal from a prince, let it be a marriage proposal for a prince!" She said, "Open it when I hold my breath. Now!" and she gasped.

"Whoa," Dipper said. When he unfolded the letter, an oversize check fluttered out. "Listen to this: Young madam and sir, we understand from your great-uncle Dr. Stanford Pines that the credit, and the reward, for finding and returning the lost Ring of Solomon to its rightful owners is yours alone. At his instructions, we have the pleasure to send the reward to you. Our American agents have already paid the necessary taxes. The balance on the enclosed cheque is yours to do with as you please. I remain yours cordially, Mumulius Heptofumbleflan III, Assistant Director."

"Pah!" Mabel gasped, puffing out her held breath. It smelled like crayons, and come to think of it, she appeared to have rainbow teeth. "Whaaat? The third?" Mabel asked. "There's two more of him? With a name like that? Sounds like something Soos would kill with fire."

"Oh, my gosh!" Dipper said, staring at the check. "Mabel, look at this! I've never seen so many zeros in my life!"

"Wow," Mabel almost whispered. Then she pumped the air with her fist. "Hamster balls for everybody!"

* * *

 

"But of course our parents frowned on Mabel's supplying the town with human-sized hamster balls. So Mom and Dad made us each put eighty per cent of our share in a college fund," Dipper finished. "But even then we still had lots left over. Mom wanted us to be practical with it, but Dad—he's a little like Mabel sometimes—said a chance like that only comes once in a kid's lifetime, and he finally talked her into letting us do anything we wanted with it. So, even though we aren't exactly rich, we did have lots of money for Christmas presents." He chuckled. "And for replacing ski poles!"

"So that's where the money came from," Wendy said. "Dude, I can't take that!"

"You mean the college fund we set up for you?" Dipper asked, smiling. "Yeah, you can. 'Cause you helped us so much with all that mess. Mabel said you wouldn't accept it, so we had Dad's lawyer set it all up for you. It's legal and it's tax-free, as long as you use it for education. You can draw on it when you start college. So don't slack off, Red!"

Wendy looked a little stunned, and she let the nickname pass. "Dad thought I'd won some kind of scholarship. He was so proud of me!"

"He ought to be, Wendy," Dipper said.

"OK. I'll accept it, on one condition. No more 'Red,' all right?"

"Yeah, sorry." Dipper frowned. "I swear, I don't know what makes me blurt that out now and then. I love your hair, but—OK, no more Red."

"Unless it's a special occasion. And you'll know it when it happens." She shook her head. "Me, a college girl. Dude, you made it seem all real!"

"Well, you really helped save the ring. In fact, you were the one who cut it loose from old Northby. You deserve at least part of the reward. Uh, Wendy?—you need any more money for maybe working on your car?"

"No!" she said. "Thanks, though. Hey, you know what? I just determined that I am gonna go to college. And I'm gonna go to the same one you choose, so, dude, pick one that has a forestry department or something like that. I want to major in lumberjackin'!"

"Well," Dipper said, "I'll do my best. You know that what we put in won't carry you all the way through, but maybe it'll take care of the first year or so."

"The start's what's important. I'm used to workin' for what I want," she said. "This is a great way to get me into the swing of college, though. It was so sweet of you guys to think of me like that. Thanks, Dipper."

"Be sure to thank Mabel, too." He chuckled. "We sort of went overboard with Pacifica's gift, too, so don't be mad when you find out what it is, OK?"

"Never, man!" Wendy turned the Jeep in at a parking lot for a row of businesses. "Here we are."

They went into the hardware store, an old-fashioned one that smelled like iron and oil, and found a couple pairs of ski poles that were maybe a little better than the stolen ones—the bill came to ninety dollars, and Dipper paid cash.

Back at the Shack, they told Soos about what had happened and apologized. "Aw, dudes!" he said, looking at the new poles, "you didn't have to buy these! It wasn't your fault!"

"Yes it was," Dipper said. "We should've kept a better look-out."

They had lunch, and not long afterward, Ford and Stan came in, looking tired and faintly grumpy. Well, Grunkle Stan looked mostly grumpy, but that was normal. Mabel was off somewhere with Waddles, and Wendy had gone to the market to shop for Soos and Melody, so Dipper sat down in the parlor with his grunkles.

"We've talked to six of the people who lost things," Ford told him.

"Seven, if ya count Durland," Stan reminded him.

"Yes, well, I never count Durland," Ford replied. "Anyway, Dipper, we did our best to investigate, but I'm afraid we found little new."

* * *

 

 **From the Journals of Dipper Pines** : _So they confirmed what we already knew: nobody saw or heard anything. The big problem is that none of the thefts amounts to very much—just nuisances rather than out and out burglary—except Deputy Durland has sworn vengeance on whoever messed up his paperclip count._

_But Ford was right—some people warned him they were keeping firearms near the bed in case the robbers came again. It could lead to ugly accidents._

_The police say that none of the pilfering—that's a word, I looked it up—is serious enough to investigate. I told Ford and Stan about how Wendy and I had lost the ski poles. "You didn't even hear anything?" Ford asked._

_"Uh—no. Whoever took them must've been very sneaky and quiet," I told them._

_Grunkle Stan laughed and wiggled his fingers. "Or you an' Wendy musta been very DISTRACTED!"_

_"We were right in the living room!" I told him. "We could see out the front windows onto the porch. We didn't see a thing. And there were no footprints. No. Footprints. In three feet of snowdrifts!"_

_"Well," Ford said, rubbing his chin, "that certainly rules out the question of animals. First, they wouldn't be interested in aluminum ski poles. Second, anything bipedal or quadrupedal would have left prints. And third, nothing that flies would have been able to pick up and carry ski poles off."_

_"The pterodactyl coulda," Stan said._

_"Pterosaur, Stanley."_

_"Whatever!"_

_"But that creature doesn't have a history of stealing things. It's not like a magpie or a jay. Anyway, look at the theft of the other things, look at it from the other side: Would that gigantic creature even be able to see something as small a paperclip? And how could it have sneaked into Lazy Susan's bedroom, as bulky as the creature is?"_

_"Snuck. Grammar, Ford," Stanley said._

_Ford sounded ticked-off: "It is not snuck, it's sneaked!"_

_"Betcha a hundred bucks!"_

_Ford made a frustrated gesture with his six-fingered hands. "Oh, for—you can't settle everything with bets, Stanley!"_

_Stanley imitated wings by putting his hands on his hips and bending his elbows and flapping as he strutted around. "Chicken! Chicken! Bawk, bawk, bawk!"_

_"Do mine ears hear a poultrygeist?" Mabel asked, charging in. "Here, chicky, chicky, ghosty!"_

_They greeted her, but for a while we all got caught up into looking up the past tense of "sneak" on the computer._

_Ford lost the bet._

_"Huh!" He said. "This is hard to fathom. In the 1500s, the past tense of sneak was indeed 'sneaked.' But Webster's says that over the past century or so, in American English, 'snuck' has become the standard past tense. I did not know that."_

_"Yeah, yeah," Stan said. "It's just like stick and stuck."_

_"It is not!"_

_"Whatever, pay up!"_

_So Ford reached for his wallet, and it was gone._

_"Didja leave it in your bedroom, Poindexter?" Stan asked. "Or did the ptero-sourball pick your pocket?"_

_"No, I'm pretty sure I—oh, wait, I paid for the gas when we stopped and didn't put it back in my trouser pocket because I was sitting down and it was hard to reach. It's out in your car. I'll go get it."_

_He was back in a second, with a funny look on his face._

"Lemme guess," Stan said. "Your wallet's mysteriously gone, right?"

_"No, I found it," Ford said, handing over some twenties. "It was right on the passenger side of the front seat, where I left it. But Stanley—I don't quite know how to tell you this—"_

_Stan looked up from his second time of recounting the money. "What, what?"_

_"Your special front license plate—it's gone. Someone must have stolen it."_

_"What!"_

_We all went out. Sure enough, the red and white El Diablo sat there in the cleared-out space we'd made with the snow blower, and missing from its front bumper was the STNLYMBL plate._

_Stan balled his fist and looked like a madman._

_"Now it's personal!" he yelled. He stood tall and raised his clenched hand to the sky. "As you are my witnesses, I won't rest until this thing is solved! I'll never be plateless again!"_

_I heard sort of strange music._

_It was just Mabel behind me, humming the theme song from_ Gone With the Wind.

* * *

 

**Chapter 7: Crack in the Case?**

Dipper pointed his new anomaly detector at the front bumper of Stan's car, pressed the power button, and turned the selector dial. The screen flickered, green against black, and settled into the word "READY."

So Dipper thumbed the "SCAN" button. The screen remained blank. Nothing under "ghosts and spirit phenomena," so he turned the selector dial one click clockwise to the next frequency and found nothing under "cryptozoological beasts," then nothing under "transdimensional intrusions" or "demonic activity"—and with the next click of the dial, the device gave a sharp beep!

"Guys, I'm getting something!" he said.

Ford came up and leaned over, adjusting his spectacles—Dipper had been relieved to see that he'd finally been to the optometrist, because that cracked left lens had been replaced—and peering at the readout screen, he said, "Hm. 'Humanoid (A).' Well, that classification means something bipedal and relatively lightweight. Nothing as big as a man, certainly, and on the very low end of child—a toddler two years old at most, if the child wasn't too heavy. It could mean anything from dwarfs to—of course, fairies! Category A includes all winged humanoids!"

"Noooo!" Mabel said. "Not them!"

"They can fly!" Dipper said.

"Yeah, but they're dorks!" Mabel shot back. During the previous summer, she had accidentally become a pawn in an intricate battle for power in the fairy world, and she had not yet forgiven the tiny creatures. "I mean, come on! Yeah, they can fly, but so can a mosquito!"

"But flying would explain so much!" Dipper said. "And fairies love to play tricks on humans."

Ford nodded. "Yes, that's true, and flight would explain the lack of footprints—but you're right, Mabel, it can't possibly be fairies. Their muscular structure is deficient. They couldn't fly while carrying the weight of a license plate in their normal form—and really, not even if they assumed a larger size. In fact, none of them could touch it. The plate is made of steel."

Dipper's pride deflated. "Oh, yeah, right. I forgot for a moment that iron and steel are poisonous to them."

"I don't believe it's fairies, so what other humanoids can fly?" Mabel asked. She had raided the gift shop cooler for a blue-raspberry icy pop and was fighting a battle with the cold wind—the pop was reluctant to melt, but she kept slurping at it with fanatic determination.

"Hmm, humanoids that can fly. Well," Ford said, ticking them off on his fingers, "there are harpies, but they only steal food; Mothman, but if any of them had been around, people would surely have seen them when they became attracted to the Christmas light displays; angels, of course, but they wouldn't indulge in criminal acts, and fallen angels lose their flying licenses; um, let me think. . . there's Huitzilopochtli but that's unlikely; um, let's see."

"Wait, what?" Mabel asked. Wheetzilowhatzis? Sounds suspicious to me!"

"An ancient Aztec war god," Ford explained. "He's a left-handed hummingbird."

"That . . . makes no sense," Dipper said.

Ford shrugged. "It's complicated. Let me see, winged humanoids. Valkyries! But no, because no one's reported a female chorus of 'Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha! Helmwige!' coming from up in the sky, so it's probably not them. Anyway, though they can carry considerable weight, they take only the souls of brave warriors who have perished in battle. I wouldn't think paperclips and ski poles would qualify. Though Valkyries might be tempted by—no, no, I have to get my thinking straight."

Mabel had been listening as her eyes slowly glazed over. She nodded and pulled the ice pop away from her neon-blue lips. "I'm just going over there now," she said, pointing to the Shack.

"Yes, yes, fine, thank you," Ford said, rubbing his chin while staring upward at the sky. "Dipper, this is definitely a clue, but I'm afraid without more information we can't narrow it down. I'll see if Fiddleford can fine-tune my own detector so it will show gradations of these things. If he can, that might help us—I could possibly distinguish among many different flying creatures, for example. Meanwhile, come with me and we'll visit two or three other crime sites and see if the readings there agree. It will have to be the most recent ones, because the traces fade over time. I'll borrow the car keys from Stanley."

His brother had remained in the Shack, grumpy, but delighted when Melody allowed him to rock little Stanley in the rocking chair. He had just managed to get the baby to sleep and to put it to bed in its crib when Ford came in with his request for the car keys.

But Stanley had other ideas. He came out of the Ramirezes' bedroom, closed the door softly, and then began to bellow: "You are _not_ drivin' my El Diablo around!"

"Dude," Soos said, putting a finger to his lips.

"Sorry," Stan whispered. "Come on, let's get away from the door and discuss this like rational people."

"I like your attitude," Ford said.

"Can it!" Stan snapped when they reached the breakfast nook. "Look, I'm not givin' you the keys!"

"Come on, Stanley," Ford said. "You know I'm a safe enough driver now. All I'm asking is to borrow your car for just a few minutes. Two hours at the most. Maybe three. That's all."

Stan crossed his arms in an I-will-not-be-moved gesture that Dipper and Mabel had seen many times before. "No. Not as long as my poor darling has to run around all naked, her grill exposed to the world!"

So in the end, he drove Ford, Mabel, and Dipper out to the three most recent sites of missing objects. Sheriff Blubs's office showed a faint trace of the signal, which seemed to indicate that whatever it was had entered by way of the doors, like a normal person (as opposed to Deputy Durland, who occasionally forgot how to work a doorknob and came in through a window).

Next was Mayor Cutebiker's place, where the signal seemed a little bit stronger. Ford had his own device, which could pin-point to within a few inches places where a paranormal creature had been. If he read it right, the whatever-it-was came down from the roof, squeezed inside through a ventilator—"Yeah," Stan said, standing outside and craning his neck back, "you can see where the grille was pulled out an' not hammered back in right"—stole the oddly assorted swag from the mayor and then returned through the attic and presumably exited the same way, through the ventilator. At least, walking all around the place, they found no track or trace of the creature, while the attic crackled and buzzed with it, so it apparently had not walked away from the house. Unless it was still inside, that left flight as the major possibility.

"What are these detectors actually detecting, great-uncle Ford?" Dipper asked.

"Oh, residual radiation. Every living creature sheds hair, skin cells, and so on, constantly. Each different type has a distinct type of radiation, and a properly calibrated machine can distinguish among them."

"Radiation?" Dipper asked eagerly. Is it quantum?"

Ford stared at him blankly for a moment. "Uh, sure. Why not? It could even be double quantum."

"Wow," Dipper said.

But a search failed to uncover any hint that the creature, whatever it was, still hid inside. They thanked the mayor and left for their last stop.

Stan drove out the winding, narrow back road to Wendy's house. The El Diablo was not quite as wide as the Jeep, so they pulled off in the same spot where Wendy had parked. Without snow shoes, trudging down to the house was difficult, the snow nearly knee-deep on Ford and Stan at times, but they followed the twice-trodden path that Dipper and Wendy had made and took no serious tumbles.

As soon as he'd stepped on the porch and Dipper had pointed out the spot where the ski poles had last been, Ford used his larger anomaly sensor and whistled. "Very strong reading here," he said, standing in the corner near the window on the right side. "Very hot. Nearly at the same level as the one at the Shack!"

"And you an' Wendy didn't see nothin'?" Stan asked Dipper.

Dipper rubbed the back of his neck. "No. Well, we were resting for a minute before heading back to the car in there on the sofa, but we weren't facing the window, and we didn't hear anybody."

"How long did you 'rest'?" Stan asked, his tone showing that he didn't mean the word "rest" in its ordinary sense, but in some more mysterious one, possibly involving thigh-high vinyl boots, black eye masks, and latex bikinis.

Dipper squirmed a little. "I don't know. It wasn't long, though. Five minutes. Ten tops!"

Stan snorted. "Yeah, well, when I was your age I could get up to a heck of a lot in ten minutes!"

Dipper said in the most mature voice he could muster, "I swear, Grunkle Stan, we weren't _doing_ anything, really, just sitting and sort of talking. We weren't looking right at the windows. Can I search this corner now, please?

Dipper had his smaller version of the detecting device now, and he followed its beepings and flashings to the edge of the porch, found a hint of a trail leading up the porch pillar and onto the roof, and noticed that a fir tree a little farther back almost touched the steep house roof and that the branches only on that side were remarkably free of snow.

_Hmm. If something got into that tree, it could easily get into the next one there, and the next one—this could be it!_

Dipper turned and said, "Guys, this may be impor—"

A hurtling snowball cut him off mid-sentence, stuffing his mouth and exploding into a cloud of very cold crystals that went up under the brim of the trapper hat and, unfortunately, down his collar and across his chest. Surprised and off-guard, he sat down hard on his butt and sank up to his armpits in soft snow. Mabel did an air punch. "Yes! My first snowball in years, and it flew straight and true! Ten points!"

Stan laughed. "Ya got a wicked arm on you, Pumpkin! You OK there, Dip?"

"I'm not hurt." With what dignity he could muster, Dipper stood up and wiped snow from his face and spat it from his mouth. "Thanks a lot, Sis," he said. "My revenge may not be swift in coming, but come it will."

"Ooh, I'm so scared!" Mabel said, hugging herself and pretending to shiver. Then she made a dismissive air slap. "Nah, I'm not! It's like being threatened by a cuddly kitten!"

Speaking over her, Dipper said, "Great-uncle Ford, I think whatever it was may have climbed up the porch column here, got up on the porch roof, then scaled the pitch of the main roof and jumped over to the fir tree."

"Or it might have _come_ from that direction," Ford said, studying the read-out on his own detector. "These devices aren't sensitive enough to tell for sure."

Stan pushed him back. "Then let's do it the old-time way. Somethin' clambered up there, there oughta be some marks in the snow. Is there a ladder?"

"I don't know," Ford said.

"I don't either," Dipper agreed.

Mabel said, "Who needs a ladder? Hoist me up!"

With Dipper standing on Stan's shoulders and Mabel climbing up to stand on Dipper's, she could barely look over the edge of the porch roof. "OMG," she said, the soles of her boots digging hard into Dipper's shoulders. "There is something up here! Hang on." She took out her phone and made several photos. "OK," she said, "let me down."'

"Here you go," Dipper said, and dumped her off his shoulders. She landed with a downy puff in a big plush drift of snow, only her legs sticking out. She kicked and wriggled until Ford reached down and pulled her free.

"Good one, bro!" she said, her face rosy with cold but grinning. "You got me back. But revenge is a dish best served in the middle of the night when your unsuspecting brother sleeps on his back with his mouth wide open! Mwah-hah-hah!"

Dipper said frantically, "Wait, what!"

Mabel held up a majestic hand, like a Queen telling the Royal Steward that she didn't care for a second serving of special surprise backseat tacos. "Shush! Right now let us not concern ourselves with petty squabbles. Hah! 'Squabbles!' That's a funny word. But look at these shots, guys!"

They clustered around her, staring at the screen of her phone. No doubt about it, there were grayish depressed tracks in the snow on the roof. She enlarged portion to make them clearer. Two of the marks were dragged-in lines, as if someone were carrying the snow poles point-first, with their handles trailing behind through the snow.

But the rest of the prints—they were the most interesting.

They looked like tiny human footprints, if the tiny human had been wearing blocky round-toed shoes, and a couple of equally tiny handprints—four-fingered, with an abnormally short thumb.

"I think I recognize those," Ford said slowly. "I wish it had been almost anything else, but unless those marks have been faked, we're up against some of the most frustrating creatures in Gravity Falls."

"What are they?" Grunkle Stan asked.

"Seriously?" Dipper asked. "Them?"

"Who?" Stan asked. "Who's them?"

"Who are they," Stanley," Ford corrected.

"What're ya askin' me for?"

"No, you might have been right about 'snuck'—"

"Mighta been? Mighta been? You snooty pompous over-educated dumbbell!"

"Not in front of the children, Stanley!"

"I think you're right, great-uncle Ford," Dipper said loudly, after staring closely at the photos one last time.

"Will somebody tell me what's goin' on?" Stan wailed.

"There, there," Mabel said, patting his arm. "I'm almost afraid to say it, Grunkle Stan." She glanced at Dipper and asked, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

He gave a grim, resigned nod.

And together they said the word: "Gnomes!"

* * *

 

**Chapter 8: Those Gnarly Gnomes**

That afternoon, they sat around the table in the Shack dining room. Melody was up and about again, though almost never without Little Soos, as everyone had begun to call the baby. However, she was in the bedroom at the moment because Little Soos was hungry.

Wendy said, "I don't get it. I know the Gnomes are, like, a major pain all the rest of the year, but you don't see them around hardly in the winter. I thought they hibernated or some junk."

"Actually," Ford said, "I'm not sure where they go in the winter. I don't think anyone knows for certain. I investigated them years ago, and my best informant, Shmebulock—"

"Senior," Mabel insisted. "We know his son. Kinda charming for a gnome, but he doesn't say much."

"Charming," Dipper said. "He tried to rip my face off once."

Ford barely paused. "Very well. Shmebulock Senior, then—"

"Hey, is Soos's baby a Junior?" Mabel asked.

"Nah," Stan said. "That's only if the kid's completely named after his dad, like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had a son named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow too—so the second one would be Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Junior—what're you giggling at, Wendy?"

"Longfellow," Wendy spluttered. She wagged her eyebrows up and down.

"I get it!" Mabel said, and she burst out laughing too.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Stanley said, but he was grinning. "OK, but Little Soos's middle name is different from Soos's—"

"That way you can tell us apart, dawg," Soos said.

Ford waited for silence, sighed, and said, "Let me continue, please. Shmebulock Senior said they 'rested and starved' in the winter. That's as much as I know. Although," he added thoughtfully, "their ancestors were a subterranean species. When they started living on the surface, they became tree dwellers. Though I believe that to this day they continue to mine ores—"

"They ain't minors, Ford!" Stan said. "They're just little!"

"Mine metals," Ford said doggedly, "so they must have mines and tunnels and so forth. Maybe they retreat there when the weather gets cold."

"It was a little joke," Stan said.

"Microscopic, dude," Wendy told him.

Soos laughed. "Hah! Zap! Boosh! She got you good, dude."

Ford took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Have you all been drinking from the Durland fountain? Come on, help me out."

"Mabel and I know where the Gnomes live," Dipper said. "And I think they more or less trust us. We can go out there and see if we can find any of them to ask."

"Good," Ford said. "Stanley and I will consult Fiddleford to see if he can suggest anything. Let's meet back here before sunset. Wendy, are you going to stay over again tonight?"

"If it's OK," she said. "I hate goin' back to our cold house. I'm not afraid of bein' alone or anything, but it's empty and clean right now, and I wanna keep it that way. After my brothers and dad get back, I'm gonna have to wash and pack up all their stuff, so this is a vacation for me."

"It's always OK with us, Wendy," Soos assured her. "You're a big help when Melody's busy with Little Soos."

"So can I borrow the Jeep again?" she asked. "I'll put gas in it."

"Sure thing, dude," Soos told her. "You know where the keys are."

"Yup," she said. "In my jeans pocket."

Wendy drove Dipper and Mabel out to the old Fiddleford home site, and the twins got out, put on snowshoes—Wendy gave Mabel a quick lesson in them—and then set off uphill. It was a hard climb on the undisturbed snow, especially since it was beginning to melt and slush, but they got to the top of the ridge and called out for Gnomes.

All the got back was the echo of their own voices. Dipper said, "Now that the Sentivore is gone from its cave, I wonder if the Gnomes are holed up there."

Mabel shivered. "Brobro, don't ask me to go back there. I can't."

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "I won't. And it's so far to walk that I don't want to try it, either, but we can suggest it to Ford. He might have some idea of how to check it out."

Wendy waited for them in the Jeep, chewing bubble gum and reading a teen magazine. "No luck, guys?" she asked when they got back.

"No," Mabel said. "They don't seem to be answering today."

"We've got a while before sunset, so let's go to Fiddleford's," Dipper said. "I'll ask great-uncle Ford what to do next."

The afternoon was wearing on, and though the weather bureau called for a low of thirty-four that night and a high of forty-two the next day, Dipper worried about patches of ice that remained on the roads. Wendy, though, had honed her driving skills and they didn't skid even once. Mabel complimented her, and she said, "Practice, Mabes. Hey, I guess you guys'll get your learner's permits next year, huh?"

"Year after," Dipper said. "In California, you have to be 15 ½ years old."

"That sucks!" Wendy said. "I got mine the day I turned 15. 'Course I was drivin' some without one when I was 14."

"I don't think Mom and Dad would like it if we did that," Mabel said. "Especially Mom. She's kinda by-the-rules, y'know?"

They reached the Fiddleford mansion, formerly the Northwest mansion, and as they turned in on the drive, they saw both of the Stans' cars in front, together with Fiddleford's and one they didn't recognize. "Man," Wendy said as she drove up the long drive and through the now permanently opened gate, "they must've, like, had the snow professionally removed. Look how dry the pavement is!"

"There are heating wires buried in the concrete," Mabel said. "Pacifica told me about them. The Northwests had a lot of labor-saving devices when they lived here. Except a lot of them were people. They had twenty servants!"

"Yeah, and now they're down to two, right?" Wendy said. "The stable guy and that butler/driver, what's his name—"

"Welly," Mabel said. "Short for Wellington. He's real nice. And the stable man is Hippolytus Phillips."

Wendy parked the car. "I think it's cool the way you get to know people, Mabes," she said as they got out of the Jeep.

"Well," Mabel said with a shrug, "people are the best people I know."

"Unicorns are the worst," Wendy said.

"Agreed!"

Mayellen Fiddleford, looking much younger and trimmer than she had when they'd rescued her the summer before, welcomed them at the door and took them to McGucket's lab, a former gigantic kitchen. They found Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford clustered around a stove-sized console with a circular screen mounted on the wall above it. "I'll leave you to your fun," Mayellen said. "Our son Tate's visiting, and he's going to take me post-Christmas shopping."

"Dipper! Mabel!" said Dr. Fiddleford McGucket, Ph.D. as he jumped up from his seat at the console. "Howdy! You're as welcome as a beehive in a bear cave! Come on over an' let's see if we can locate those little varmints!"

"Hi!" Mabel said. "You and Mayellen are both looking great, Fiddleford!"

"Aw, donkey spittle!" Fiddleford said with a grin. "Th' Missus makes me stay all trimmed an' clean an' gussied up." His formerly floor-length beard had been neatly trimmed, some of his hair had grown in again, and in horn-rimmed spectacles, a white shirt and bow tie, a white (though splotched with stains) lab coat, long pants, and shoes—the last had been the hardest for him to get used to after more than 20 years of barefooting it—and not one bandage or cast in sight, Fiddleford looked more like a distinguished college professor and not as much like a deranged hillbilly lunatic hermit as he had when the twins had first met him.

"What's this?" Dipper asked as they walked over to the machine.

"Ah! This here is a N.A.S.E.A.L!"

"A naseal?" Wendy asked. "What does it do, like, pick your nose for you?"

"Naw! Heehee, that's a good'un! But you do give me an idea. Maybe I'll add a laser nose-picker for the next generation. Naw, what this device-a-majigger does is to scan fer life sign readings. I can callibromate it to different vibrational frequencemadoodles, so it can give me a pretty close readin' on where and how many of any livin' things might be. We sent up a drone a few minutes ago. It's a-gonna hover over the middle of th' town at five thousand feet and use a special kind of radar to scan the whole dang county. That info feeds back here an' the machine processes it an' gives us a display yonder on th' monitor."

"We've calibrated the scanner for Gnome signal," Ford said.

"Hey, braniacs, that green light just came on," Stan pointed out.

"Hot possum roadkill! We're in business!" Fiddleford said. He reached to the side of the console, grabbed the handle of a four-foot long lever coming from a slot in the floor, and with enormous effort began to pull it toward him.

"You know, you could replace that with a simple pushbutton," Ford said.

"Aw, where's the fun in that?" Fiddleford said, panting with effort. "Stanford, I admire yore genius, but when it comes to practical sciencin' you got no sense of style! Uggh—there we go! Watch th' screen!"

The screen glowed a dull, deep green. A grid of red lines overlaid the background, and in a brighter green the roads and streets of Gravity Falls Valley showed up. In the lower right corner of the monitor the word DETECTING appeared in yellow and flashed repeatedly.

And then—a sprinkle of yellow dots began to pepper one square of the grid, more and more of them popping up, until that small area was glowing yellow. "Got 'em!" Fiddleford said. "Huh. Not any of them anywhere else 'cept in this one place. Let me zoomify that cell."

The screen locked onto the glowing mass of yellow and it enlarged, becoming a thick pattern of individual dots. "Hundreds of Gnomes," Ford said. "Maybe a thousand or so!"

"Where is that?" Stan asked, squinting at the lines indicating streets.

"I can't hardly believe it," Fiddleford said, "but it's my old digs. Th' town dump!"

Wendy said, "What're we waiting for, dudes? Let's go get 'em."

Stanley slipped from brass knuckles from his jacket pocket. "Yeah, I wanna talk to them about my license plate."

Fiddleford stayed behind, but the rest went in two cars, the Stanleymobile and the Jeep. Mabel chose to ride with the Stans, so Dipper and Wendy were alone in the Jeep. "Don't take any chances, Dip," Wendy cautioned. "If you get hurt, your folks won't ever let you come back on a break."

"Gnomes aren't very dangerous," Dipper reassured her. "Just incredibly annoying."

They made a turn and the dump was straight ahead on the right. "Huh!" Wendy said. "Check it out. Smoke."

"Not a big fire, though," Dipper said. "Maybe a campfire."

Wendy parallel parked, the Stanleymobile pulled in behind her, and everyone got out. "The town repaired the fence," Dipper said. "There used to be loose boards right here."

"Yeah," Stan said. "These three here look newer."

Ford took out his cell phone. "I'll call the town waste-management authority and ask for someone to come and open the gate for us," he said.

"Nah, I got it, Ford," Stan said. He walked over to the new boards and punched them hard. "Here ya go. Hey, look, these three are loose. Watch out for protrudin' nails!"

They ducked and stepped through. Beyond a clutter of abandoned auto bodies, old dishwashers, twisted bicycle frames, mountains of tin cans, piles of foam-plastic cups and plates, coils of electric wire and garden hoses, stood the ramshackle hut thrown together from sheet-metal panels that McGucket had called home for years. The spray-painted sign that a couple of teen vandals had decorated it with, "McSuckit," now sun-faded, identified it. A round stovepipe with a conical shield on the end poured out white smoke.

"Gnomes!" Mabel called. "We know you're here! Gnomey-Gnomey-Gnomey!"

A horrible voice thundered, "Retreat or be crushed, puny morals!"

And a giant arose, brandishing its fists threateningly.

"We just want to talk!" Ford yelled.

"Yeah, speak for yourself," Stan said, pounding his brass knuckles into his other palm. "Ya want a piece of me, creeps?"

The giant stood thirty feet tall. "Gnomes, attack!"

Mabel shielded her eyes. "Jeff, is that you up there?"

"Show the intruders no mercy—wait, Mabel? Mabel, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me!" Turning partly back, she whispered, "He's my ex. I can handle him."

Ford said, "Your what?"

"Don't ask," Dipper cautioned. "Let her talk."

"Jeff, you're just being naughty," Mabel said. "Come on down and let's talk about this like civilized people. Or like a civilized person and a Gnome, whatever. Come on." When the giant didn't move, Mabel snapped firmly, "I mean now, Jeff!"

"She's really good at doin' the voice," Wendy murmured to Dipper. "She's gonna make some guy a great wife!"

"Please don't take any tips from her," Dipper whispered back.

The giant hesitated, then dissolved as the component Gnomes dropped away. One of them came forward, the brown-bearded leader—vice-leader, actually, since the Gnomes were technically ruled by a queen, who happened to be a badger—long story, don't worry about it—and who employed Jeff as her prime minister and interpreter. "Hi, Mabel," he said, rubbing his elbow and looking a little uneasy. "So how you been?"

"Can it, Jeff," Mabel said. "You've been stealing things, haven't you!"

"Uh. Well, define 'stealing.'"

"Takin' the plate off my car, ya little jerk!" Stan said.

"The—what?"

"Let me," Dipper said. "Jeff, it's a rectangle, orange, with human letters on it."

"Orange. Oh, yeah, I know what you mean. Um. Can we give it back to you when the world warms up again?"

"Now," Stan said.

"Nuh-nuh-nuh, just let me talk," Mabel said. "Jeff, have you moved into that old shack? Gnomes don't live indoors. This is like whaaaa?"

"We had to use it," Jeff said. "It was empty, it had a stove for heat, and the kids were gonna freeze."

"You have kids?" Mabel asked, her pupils swelling visibly. "Ooh! I bet they're adorable! Li'l Gnomey kids!"

"They—they're not Gnomes," Jeff said. "They're human."

"You've kidnapped human children?" Ford asked, sounding outraged.

Jeff balled his fists. "We did not! We rescued them after their own dad ran out on them! They shared their food with us when the cold weather hit, and then when we last came to visit we found them alone in their freezing house with nothing to eat themselves! So we found this place for them. Nobody was using it!"

Mabel said, "Jeff, I think we'd better see these kids."

Their names were Belinda and Rodney, and they were eight and twelve years old. They looked scared when the group crowded into the hut. Wendy told the others, "I got this, dudes. Let me talk to them alone for a few minutes, OK?"

They stepped outside. After ten minutes, Wendy came out, wiping her eyes. "Their mom's been dead for a year or two. Their dad's a carpenter. They were livin' up in Klamatch, a little town near the border with Washington, an' it was OK 'cause their dad had work finishin' some houses a contractor was puttin' up, but then the company went bankrupt. Their mom's family had a little shacky house out near Crooked Creek, and their dad brought 'em here to live while he looked for work—he didn't even get his last two paychecks from the contractor who'd hired him. Long story short, he couldn't find a job. Week before Christmas they were runnin' low on food, electricity had been cut off, an' their dad drove up to Klamatch to see if he could get at least some of his pay. He was s'posed to come back that same day, but he never did, an' the Gnomes found the kids like they said, cold an' hungry."

Jeff nodded. "We decided to try to raise them as our own." He looked down at the ground. "We don't know how, though."

"Why didn't you ask for human help?" Ford demanded.

"Because your people just threw them away!" Jeff said angrily, his face turning red. "A Gnome would never do that!"

"But why were you stealing all those things?" Dipper asked him.

"To give them Christmas," Jeff said. "We don't know what it is, but they wanted it. We did our best."

This time when they went back in, they saw the Christmas tree the Gnomes had made—constructed of ski poles, tangles of chicken wire, and decorated with a deputy-sheriff star at the top, with various items dangling from the wire, including the missing paper clips that Deputy Durland was agonizing over—and the STNLYMBL plate.

"I think we can do a little better than this," Stan said in a gruff voice. "Look, uh, Jeff is it? Jeff, you can't raise human kids. Believe me. But we can find someone to take them in and give them a home. Look this was supposed to be a surprise, but Wednesday is our New Year's Day, and we were plannin' to throw a late Christmas party for Dipper and Mabel at the Mystery Shack. We'll let Belinda an' Rodney have Christmas with us. And we'll find their dad."

"Can we trust you?" Jeff asked suspiciously.

"Yeah. 'Cause—OK, I give up—'cause you're invited to the party, too. I took some of you in durin' Weirdmageddon, I guess Soos can stand a few more of you. An' you say you're hungry?"

"We can make do!" Jeff said proudly.

Mabel knelt down and patted his shoulder. "Come on," she said. "Don't be like that! What do you guys usually do in the winter for food?"

"Do without," Jeff admitted. "Mostly."

"Can't you, like, raid squirrels' nests and things?" Wendy asked.

"Gnomes don't take from helpless animals," Jeff said. "Humans, that's a different story. They throw away as much food as they eat, and when we can find it, we salvage that. Lately, though, we've been giving most of what we find to the two kids. They need it. You can see how thin they are."

"Come to the party," Stan said. "Meantime, I'll see that you get real food. An' after the party, we'll stock you up for the rest of the winter."

Jeff appeared to waver. "Well, I don't know."

Dipper said, "Jeff, it's an old tradition. Humans show each other kindness at Christmas. It's something Gnomes and people can both do. Let us take care of the kids, and you come to the party. Deal?"

"OK," Jeff said. "But let us say goodbye to them. We always liked them."

"They're not going anywhere," Mabel said. "You don't need to tell them goodbye."

Still, the glum Gnomes massed and waved as the humans took Belinda and Rodney out to the cars.

Oh, and the license plate. Stan said in his crusty way that they'd send somebody to collect the other stuff later, but he took the license plate. And he bolted it back on before he and Ford drove to the sheriff's office to see if the police could help them find some trace of David Sawyer, the kids' father.

The two children, Dipper, and Mabel, climbed into the Jeep and Wendy drove them to the Shack, where Melody found from somewhere warm clothes that didn't really fit them but at least were better than the dirty shirts and jeans they had been wearing. And Wendy whipped up a hot meal, which they devoured like half-starved wolves.

They didn't talk much, but Dipper took them upstairs and put them to bed in the attic. He wished them a good night.

Belinda asked, "Can you find our Daddy?"

"We're sure gonna try," he said.

He stood out on the landing and felt as though he were about to cry. Wendy came up, sat on the top stair, and patted the spot beside her. They sat side by side, their arms around each other. "I know," she said. "It's rough when you're poor."

"Yeah," Dipper said. "I've never been poor. Now I feel guilty 'cause I haven't used any of the reward money to help kids like these."

"From now on," Wendy said, "we do better. OK?"

"OK," Dipper agreed. "Can we sit here for just a minute?"

She pulled his head onto her shoulder and leaned her cheek against him. "Long as you want," she said.

They sat there quietly for a good while, until they heard voices downstairs. One of them was Stan's.

And he sounded furious.

* * *

 

**Chapter 9: The Rescue**

"He's in jail?" Soos asked. "That blows my mind, dudes! Boosh! Is Mr. Sawyer, like, some international criminal or some junk like that, dawgs?"

"No, not at all," Ford said wearily. "He broke a traffic law, or so they say, up in Washowah County. Sheriff Blubs says the county police there are inept and corrupt, and knowing Blubs, you'll realize what that says about them."

"What law did he break?" Dipper asked.

Stan growled, "Brake lights weren't workin'. Probably a fuse."

Wendy said, "Wait, that's like a hundred-buck fine, right? But they threw him in jail?"

With a sigh, Ford said, "They claim he resisted arrest. And they claim his truck isn't up to mechanical standards for street operation. They socked him with a thousand-dollar fine or thirty days in the county jail. He tried to use his one telephone call to reach a friend of his who lives outside of Portland, but nobody was home and there was no answering machine."

"Yeah," Stan said, pounding his fist on the table, "an' when he tried to explain about his kids needin' him, the lousy sheriff up there said he was just lyin'. They never even called in to Blubs to check on 'em! That burns my bacon!"

"The long and short is," Ford said, "they've thrown Mr. Sawyer in jail, they've confiscated his truck, and he's been held incommunicado."

"I thought he was being held in Washowah County," Mabel said.

"That, too," Ford told her. "Well, they won't see us tomorrow or Sunday, so on Monday I'll go up and try to spring him. I suspect if we pay the fine, they'll let him go. If not, well, I have a law degree—don't I? Yes, I remember, I do. So though I'm not qualified to _practice_ law, I think I can reason with any judge they have up there. If worst comes to worst, Mr. Sawyer will have to serve his thirty days, and then we'll bring him home."

"To what?" Stan asked. "To that little shack the kids lived in up on Crooked Creek?"

"Yeah," Wendy said. "They say it's like, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen-dining-living room, and that's it! And how will they even get to school in the spring? The bus doesn't run out that far!"

"And how will they get food?" Melody asked. "How will they have heat and electricity?"

"Leave that to Mabel!" Mabel jumped up, ran to get her coat and hat, and then rushed back in. "Brobro, I'm takin' your bike!"

"Wait, wait," Wendy said, getting up. "It's cold out there, Mabes. I'll drive you wherever you're going."

"I'll accept your offer! Don't wait up, guys!"

"Where's she going?" Dipper asked, but he knew with Mabel that was like asking a butterfly where it intended to head next.

The two kids, little Belinda and her big brother Rodney, had been taken in by Mayellen and Fiddleford McGucket—"Shucks, we got rooms I ain't even found yet," he said—and Mayellen had hastily rounded up some clothes that fit them. As for the Gnomes, they swarmed through town in their own secretive way, without being seen or heard, and congregated in the bushes near Greasy's Diner. Stan had bought pies, raw veggies (in salad form) and fruit enough to make Lazy Susan's eye light up and had carried them out to the little guys, who were so hungry they dived in right there.

Maybe a few people passing by wondered why the bushes were making nom-nommy sounds, but, eh, it was Gravity Falls, so nobody checked it out.

Everyone should have been happy. Or happier. But Stan fumed, a sad-faced Wendy kept going over to visit the two kids, and Mabel spent all Saturday roaming Gravity Falls.

Dipper felt abandoned. Even the warming weather didn't cheer him up that much.

Around noon on Saturday, since everybody else seemed busy, he decided to do something he had been pondering. Except under the shelter of the forest and in the highest drifts, much of the snow had melted.

So, wearing Wendy's trapper's hat, his heavy hiking boots, and his light jacket—the day was far from freezing, but the wind was chilly—he made his way along a muddy, slushy track to a clearing in the woods. He stood in front of the stone effigy of Bill Cipher.

_OK, OK, I told myself I was going to do this._

He went to a nearby stone, spread out a red vinyl tablecloth—he had sneaked, sorry, Ford, had snuck it out of the pile of stuff Soos had bought to make the Shack ready for the upcoming party—and sat facing the Bill statue.

Closing his eyes and regulating his breathing, Dipper found it easy to slip back into that odd in-between nowhere called the Mindspace.

"Bill?"

A yellow-and-black shape shimmered out of thin air, the only splotch of color in the otherwise monochrome Mindspace. "Pine Tree! Well, well, well well wellwellwell! How's it going, Dippitydoo?"

"I'm OK. You're looking pretty good," Dipper said. "Got your hat back, I see."

Bill tipped his top hat—though it was only about a third its old height—and the world did not tilt. "Working on it, kid. It's getting bigger all the time. When it's finished, the cane comes next. Then I try to pack some size on me. I'm up to nearly two centimeters now, so I still got a long way to go. You're looking bigger, too."

"Yeah, we humans eventually grow up," Dipper said. "Listen, I have to ask you to do something, and don't take this the wrong way, but—get out of my freaking head, all right?"

Bill blinked his single eye. "Out of your head? When have I been in it lately? Since the last time we talked I haven't visited your dreams even once, Pine Tree! Any nightmares are strictly your fault, and if you'll read the submicroscopic print in the impossibly complex code, you'll see that I'm not to be held legally or morally responsible for any psychic injury inflicted by your own so-called mental capacity—"

"You know what I mean!" Dipper said. "You left some molecules of yourself in me back when we banished the Horroracle, and they're affecting me."

"Hmm." Bill came closer and stared hard at Dipper. "Can't tell from here . . . mind if I step inside and look around?"

Dipper balled his fists. "Into my head? No way! I don't trust you, Bill!"

Looking a little offended, in an isosceles way, Bill said, "OK, OK! Let me instead do a quick HAT scan—"

"You mean CAT scan."

"I know what I mean, Pine Tree!" Bill took off his hat and pulled it. It extended like a pirate's spyglass. "This isn't invasive. It's not as thorough as a mind visit, but it'll let me check you out."

"No lies?

"No lies." Bill spread his arms, holding the hat-scope in his right. "Why are you so worried? Hey, look at my tie. I got part of you in me, and you don't hear me whining about it!"

It was true. Bill's tie, once black, was now a patchwork of colors taken from Dipper—skin, hair, eyes, even clothes. "If the molecules don't grow, how come it's bigger?" Dipper asked.

"My molecules don't grow, kid, I can only accumulate 'em when I find 'em, and they're scarce! Human-type molecules are a dime a quadrillion in this continuum. Yours in my tie just keep on attracting more, so I think my formerly formal bow will always be this weird razzmatazz patchwork pattern, no matter how big it gets. And I know it's influencing me. Some days I feel nearly non-chaotic for two or three seconds at a stretch, but I don't complain! Jeez, kid, get over yourself! I promise I won't hurt you in any way. Look, no crossed fingers. It's the only way I can help you."

Reluctantly, Dipper said, "Go ahead."

Bill put the hatscope to his eye and whirled around him like a corn chip in a tornado, so fast that Dipper could hear the whiz. At last he steadied, the scope becoming a hat again.

"Whoa! That makes me so dizzy I feel like throwing up. I like it! But relax, kid, the little tiny bit of me inside you isn't growing at all. It can't. Like I say, my molecules don't come from this continuum, so there's no way they can multiply. The only ones available are those scattered here when Stanley punched me out, and I'm scarfing up all those—they won't come to you, but I can psychically call them, a few at a time. Anyway, the problem has to be on your end, so tell me your troubles. Wait a minute!"

He flashed out of existence, and then back in, but this time his one eye wore a monocle, and the lower part of his pyramidal body wore what looked like a black suit, his matchstick arms and legs protruding from sleeves and pants legs. "Ach, zo," he said in a kind of ripe, phony Austrian accent, "der patient, Mason Pines, is eggsperienzink some mental trouble vich he attrrrributes to his, how you say, frenemy Bill Cipher. Zo, Dipper—may I call you Dipper? Nefer mind, I call you Dipper. Tell me vot der zymptoms is."

Still not sure about this, Dipper hesitated before answering. "Every time I feel especially close to Wendy, I call her 'Red!'" he finally blurted. "She doesn't like it, and I can't stop it! I want you to make it stop!"

"Ach, so?" Bill materialized a clipboard and pen and scribbled for a few seconds, staring down in intense concentration. He held up his drawing. "Look, a turkey! Tell me, Mr. Pines, when eggzactly does der impulse to call her 'Red' occur? On what occasions?"

"Well—when we've kissed, especially. When I want to tell her I love her but—you know. Age difference. I don't want to make her think I'm pushy or trying to force her to, you know, show she likes me."

Bill looked thoughtful. "Und why is this zo important to you?"

Unhappily, Dipper confessed, "I don't want to make her mad at me, ever. And I—I don't want to scare her away. I'm too—never mind."

Dropping the thick accent for a moment, Bill said, "But I do mind. You're what? I can't help you if you don't help me, kid."

"I'm scared enough myself," Dipper admitted miserably. "I'm so afraid I'm gonna lose her. She's so different now. She seems—I don't know. So grown up. And I still feel like a kid."

"Hmm. All ze time she is acting mature?"

Dipper thought about it. "Well—no, she still kids around a lot with Mabel and me, like when we first met her, but when she met my parents, for instance, she was—I don't know. I mean, they liked her a lot, but I almost felt sometimes she was more like them than like me, you know?"

"Maturity before your parents. Haff you considered zat this vas likely an act? Zat she vanted zem to like her, und so she made a special effort to behave grown-up?"

"I—uh." Dipper frowned in concentration. "No, I didn't. Not really."

"You should ask her. I think it likely you vill discover zat Wendy was afraid your parents would not approve of her, zo she acted older, ja? People do strange things when they fear somethink."

Dipper confessed, "My biggest fear, the one that keeps me awake, is that the old thing about her being too old for me will come up again. I'm really scared of losing her because of that."

"Ah. Zen you are calling her "Red" from an impulse of fear, not love, do you see? Und it is your fear of losing her, not zo?"

"Yeah," Dipper said. "I guess. This is stupid. I'm sorry I came to see you."

"No, no, don't wake yourself up yet. You are making strides. Let us continue. If it is your fear zat causes this, what can stop it?"

"Uh—getting over being afraid?"

"Ja, good, good. Und how do you do zis?"

"I don't know! I—I can't."

"Don't lie to yourself, young man. Do you remember any times when you vas afraid, but got thrrrrough the fear? Perhaps even with my colleague Bill Cipher?"

"Yes."

"Der vas specially one time ven you vas sure Bill vas about to kill your sister— _Eeny, meeny, minie, und zo weiter, nein?_ Do you remember what you were about to do ven he started to point his finger at your sister?"

"Try to throw myself in front of Mabel," Dipper mumbled.

In his own voice, Cipher said seriously, "I remember too. I could feel you struggling in my grip. You were going to intercept my kill shot and take it for her. That kinda impressed me, kid." Then he slipped back into the accent: "Und you vas doink zat because—why?"

"Because I love my sister!"

"Ja. Always ven you two vas in danger, you took her hand or put your arm around her, not true? Und ven it vas important und she asked you to trust her—like mit der, what is the words, leaf blower, you did find zat trust, true? Zo, if you love Wendy-?"

"I—I shouldn't worry so much about how to behave. I shouldn't try to act older and more aggressive, I guess—just do what seems best—and—oh, my God. I should trust her to tell me if I go wrong."

"Ja! Trust! Always a problem for you. But simple, no? Keep zat in mind und you vill have no more trrrrrouble mit der yelling out 'Red.' Good, I think ve haff made some prrrrogress. See the receptionist on your way out."

"Wait, what?"

Bill spun in a blur and then came to a standstill, but now he wore a white nurse's uniform, or something like it, and a curly blonde wig. In a high-pitched, Southern-accented voice, he looked up from a computer screen that had just materialized and asked, "All finished, Mr. Pines? We'll add this session to your bill, hon. Shall I schedule you for another hour? Let me see. . . the doctor has 'whenever' open. I'll just pencil you in for that, all right, sugar?"

Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bill, this isn't funny."

From behind him, in his own voice, Bill Cipher said, "So what? I thought you wanted to be serious, Pine Tree! Excuse me for trying to be helpful—Well, well! Yell-o!" He tipped his hat and fiddled with his tie.

There were two of him floating there, the regular Bill and the nurse Bill. The later batted his eye and said, "Well, hi there, handsome!"

Bill tugged with both hands at his bow tie. "Hiya, cutie! You're a sight for sore eye! When do you get off work, sweetie?"

"As a matter of fact, sugar, right this very minute!"

"Why don't you go freshen up, and then we'll step out and paint the town yellow?"

"Sounds just wonderful to me! Be right back, honey pie." The nurse vanished.

Dipper sighed. "OK, I'll try to remember this stuff. And I'll try really hard to trust Wendy and—and my feelings, and not to get scared and call Wendy 'Red.' But you can't be serious, Bill—you're not really gonna date a receptionist. That's just you! You'll be dating yourself!"

Cipher rolled his eye and in a sarcastic tone said, "Mmm, yeah, and what's your point? If I'm not mistaken, teenaged human males aren't exactly unfamiliar with, heh-heh, 'dating' themselves. Hey, want a little news bulletin? I'm getting some of my abilities back, and if my prodigious powers of prognostication haven't faded, I can foresee that you and Red are destined for some fun and interesting and, um, intense times together. Oh, speaking of that, I hope you like red-haired, freckled kids. Lots of 'em. Maybe even twins!"

"Bill?" But the shock of hearing that had wakened Dipper from his trance, and he sat on the cold stone in the clearing. He got up, grinning foolishly, and picked up the tablecloth. He started to fold it, but on second thought, he tied it around the statue of Bill, knotting it below the eye but above the arms. "Make you look special for your date," he said. He patted the cold stone. "See you again whenever, Nacho."

* * *

 

 

**Chapter 10: More Frustrating than Unicorns**

Sheriff Manley Glodson was very nearly a globe. He must have weighed 350 pounds, fifty of it chins—a collection of them dangled and wobbled there beneath his prissy, smirking mouth. Ford was fleetingly glad that he'd made this trip alone. Had Stanley come along, he thought, Glodson's jail would have already gained two more inmates.

"But surely if the fine is paid—"

"Still have that ol' wreck of a truck messin' up my parking lot," the sheriff said. "Figure I have to charge a hundred a day for space rental. That adds another nine hundred to the fine. There's the fee for havin' that old truck hauled into here in the first place, another hundred. Plus, I have to do paperwork, so that's another hundred. We're talking about two thousand one hundred now. Be two thousand two hundred tomorrow."

"All right," Ford said, fighting down an urge to whip out his magnet gun and pull the banks of file cabinets behind the sheriff's desk down on the man. "Fine. I have a thousand dollars in cash for the fine and I can write—"

"Don't take checks or credit cards," Glodson said with his annoying smile. "You just can't trust people, you know."

Ford looked at his watch. "It's not quite noon. Where's the nearest bank?"

"About three blocks away. It's closed, though."

"Where's the next nearest?"

"One mile. It's closed, too. All the banks in the county are closed for this whole week. Too bad. There's always after New Year's, though. You can come back then."

"No, I'll find an open bank somewhere," Ford said. "What's the deadline?"

Glodson jerked a thumb up over his shoulder. Above the file cabinets a round electric clock showed the time as 11:53. "Five o'clock, by the office clock. Good luck finding a bank."

"May I at least speak to Mr. Sawyer?"

"He's in isolation. He's an insolent sort of man. Teach him a lesson, you know. No visitors."

Ford walked out of the sheriff's office and used his cell phone—he still marveled at it—to call Stanley. "Listen," he said, "there's a complication."

"Who do I need to kill?" Stan asked.

"No, no, it's just that the sheriff, a man named Glodson, is using this case to scam us out of as much money as possible. I need you to wire me fifteen hundred more. That should cover the bases."

"Fifteen hundred, got it. Where do I send it?"

"I'll call you back."

Sitting in the claustrophobic parking lot—except for the entrance, it was surrounded by a high brick fence—Ford looked at what must be Sawyer's pickup, a ten-year old wreck. Literally. Someone had broken out headlights and taillights, and the windshield was a network of shattered safety glass, sagging inward and about to collapse under its own weight. Deep dents in the body showed that someone had been exercising, maybe with a baseball bat.

Ford used his phone to find the nearest wire-transfer office. It was about a fifteen-mile drive. He called Stanley back and told him the number for the transfer. "What are you doing?" Ford asked. "Sounds like you're driving."

"Yeah, runnin' an errand. But I'll take care of this within the half hour. It'll probably be waitin' for you by the time you get to the office."

"I may also have to hire a wrecker," Ford said. "The sheriff is charging rent for the impounded truck, and he—or one of his staff, maybe—has made it undriveable."

"Oy," Stanley groaned. "Just out of curiosity, where is the sheriff's office?"

"Corner of Main and Stanton, in Klamatch," Ford said. "But don't drive up here! The last thing we need is you and your hot head."

"Would I do something like that?" Stan asked. "Let me go send you that money."

* * *

 

"Ford?" Wendy asked from behind the wheel of the rental car.

"Yeah. It's worse'n I figured after his first phone call. Ya sure you wanna go through with this, Wendy?"

"Absolutely."

"We might get caught."

"That's what makes it fun, old man!" Wendy returned with a grin.

Stan chuckled. "Ya know, if I was twenty again—skip it. I don't wanna get creepy."

Wendy laughed. "Stan, you missed that bus a long time ago!"

Stan had been surfing the web on his phone. "OK, next town there's a department store that has a Western Union kiosk. Should be two-three miles. I gotta send Poindexter some money."

"Got it. Just tell me where to turn."

Ford was back at the sheriff's department by two-thirty. As he walked to the front door, through the big front window he caught a glimpse of Glodson's retreating bulk. The hulking sheriff went into his office—he was working alone because, he said, the rest of the staff had the day off as part of the holiday week—and reached up to move the hands of the clock.

That was the last straw. Ford drew.

Glodson was just about to spin the hands forward to past 5:00 when—to his amazement—the clock jumped off the wall and sped out of his office through the open door, trailing electric wires. At the same moment, the front door opened and Ford walked in. "Hey!" he said, ducking. "You don't have to throw the clock at me!" He picked it up. "Two thirty-one. I'm back with the money, and the clock's not showing past five, anyway."

"What happened?" Glodson asked, sounding dazed.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Ford said. "It's your clock." He counted out the cash, in hundred and fifty-dollar bills. "That should release Mr. Sawyer. I'll want a signed release form and a receipt."

"What?"

"You ought to do something to earn the hundred-dollar paperwork fee," Ford said, smiling.

Glodson sat down and irritably filled in and signed and stamped two forms. Then he passed a third to Ford. "You sign this," he said.

"What is it?"

"Standard letter. You won't bring any charges or make any complaints. You agree to get that wreck out of my lot by five p.m."

"I've already called a wrecking service," Ford said. He read through the document, and with a face as grim as an approaching tornado, he signed it. "Now, Mr. Sawyer, please."

"Come on."

It was a wonder that Glodson could fit through the door that led back to the cells. None of them were occupied, but then they went through a second door into a chilly room that held only one cell. An emaciated man sat on a bunk—just wooden boards, no mattress—with his head in his hands.

"It's your lucky day, dog ass," Glodson said. "You got a lawyer here to spring you." He unlocked the cell, and uncertainly, the man stood up, his eyes huge and haunted.

"Your kids are OK," Ford told him, and the man began to sob. "Thank you," he said, his words hardly understandable.

"Let's go."

"I'd run him through the car wash," Glodson said. "He's gonna stink up your vehicle."

"I'll take my chances. Steady."

Ford had to half-support Sawyer. The man had almost no muscle tone. And he did smell—a smell not like sweat, but oddly yeasty. It was the scent of starvation. "Didn't they feed you?" Ford asked him.

"Once a day. Cup of water and one slice of bread."

In the parking lot, Ford had to catch Sawyer to keep him from falling. "My truck," the man said. "What did they do to my truck?"

"It'll be OK," Ford said. "Come on. I'm going to drive you down to Gravity Falls and your kids."

"They'll take them away from me," Sawyer said, his voice brimming with despair.

"You have friends," Ford said. "Here." He opened the passenger door of his Lincoln.

Sawyer, who had no coat—only a chambray work shirt, holes in the elbows, jeans, and tattered sneakers, no socks—hung back. "I'll dirty up your car."

"It can be cleaned. The first thing we're going to do is get you a little food. There's a burger place not far from here. Is that OK?"

Sawyer began to drool and wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand. "I'm sorry. I thought I was going to die back there."

"You're not. Are burgers OK?"

"Heaven," the man said, shaking all over.

Half a mile down the road, Stan and Wendy sat in their car, parked in the lot of a closed and boarded-up gas station. "There he comes," Stan said. "Look, he's got the guy with him. Wait until they're outa sight. Now. Let's go."

They cruised past the sheriff's station, Stan glanced through the open gate into the parking lot, and said, "Got it. Just one truck in there, easy to see."

Wendy found another inconspicuous place to park, they casually walked into the sheriff's department lot, did a little tinkering, and then were ready. "I'll drive it," Stan said.

"No way, man," Wendy told him. "I'm the one can jump-start it."

"Wendy, I swear if you don't marry Dipper an' get to be my niece-in-law, I'll call down the curse of the Pines on you."

"Wouldn't want that!" Wendy said with a grin. "But give Dip some time to get legal. You go pull the car around so's I can see it and give me the high sign when it's time."

"Tuck all that hair beneath your coat."

Wendy did so. Stan still shook his head. "Wish we could disguise you somehow."

"One sec." She pulled a long strand of her hair out, draped it across her upper lip, and then tucked the other side beneath her hat. "Now I'm a dude," she said, and she did look like she had a mutton-chop mustache.

"Get 'er started, an' look for me."

When Stan drove to within sight again, Wendy revved the truck engine. She'd punched a hole through the fractured windshield—she did need to see—and when he stopped, she leaned forward, her hand on the gearshift.

In the rental car, Stan, speaking into his phone, disguised his voice and said, "Hey, Sher'f, I think somebody's a-stealin' a ol' truck in yore lot." When he heard Glodson's squawk, he waved at Wendy and sped down the street.

Wendy peeled out—it was amazing that the old truck had that much pick-up, but a blessing—as a screaming globe of a man in uniform came running out with all the speed and grace of an angry hippo. She burned rubber as she made the right turn into the street. Glodson inserted himself into his police cruiser, started it, and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The car leaped forward about five feet and stopped.

The chain tethering its rear axle to a light pole was the reason. Glodson boiled out of the driver's seat, maybe just in time, because the engine, still running, dropped completely out of the frame. A second later, all four doors fell off. His face the red of an impending coronary incident, Glodson grabbed the microphone. "APB!" he screamed. "I've got a redheaded mustached SOB of a perp in a pickup truck on the run! I need eyes on the road! Anyone copy?"

He released the TALK key, the radio crackled, and a strangely familiar voice said, "Is this here Sheriff Glodson?"

"Yeah! Yeah, it is!"

"Oh. Then bite me!"

In the end, Glodson had to call for an ambulance. Sadly, his frail health caused him to have to resign from office not more than a week later. It is said that the people of the county quietly celebrated his retirement by invading his office, burning his arrest records, and stealing all of the computers, but that may be just a rumor.

* * *

 

"How does this cockamamie thing work?" Stan asked a couple of miles away. He and Wendy had both pulled off the road and behind some trees.

"Let me see it, dude." Wendy took the flashlight and cautiously pointed it at an acorn on the ground as she turned it on. "Whoops." She turned it off and kicked an acorn the size of a beachball. "Wrong setting." She twisted the crystal and tried again. The acorn shrank. Then she aimed it at the truck, and kept the beam on it until it was the size of a toy.

"That's the ticket!" Stan picked the shrunken truck up and dropped it in his pocket. "We'll give it to his kids as a souvenir. Want me to drive back?"

"I'm good. I get tired, I'll tell you." Wendy pulled and shook her hair loose. "Now, _that_ was fun. You gonna ditch the cop-band radio?"

"Nah, they got no reason to stop us. I've used it before, and it comes in handy. We see flashin' blue lights in the rear-view, I might shrink it, though." He pulled out his phone. "But I do need to make a call." He punched in a number and after a moment said, "Hiya, Soos! Do me a solid, bro?"

As Soos responded, Stan put his hand over the phone's mouthpiece and asked Wendy, "Did I say that right?"

She popped a bubble. "Close enough, dude."

"OK, OK, I don't need your undyin' pledge of loyalty," he said to Soos. "Listen up: Me an' Wendy been in and outa the Shack all day, right? Think, Soos! You know we have, get me? You've seen us, like, three-four times? Most recently, uh, say a few minutes ago? Yeah, it is kinda like a spy movie. Great! You're a good man, Soos! Huh? OK, OK." Clenching his teeth, Stan added in a deadpan voice, "You're like a son to me. Great, great. See you in a few!"

Because they didn't stop to feed a nearly-starved man, and because Wendy was at the wheel, they arrived in a town a few miles north of Gravity Falls, returned the rental, packed all their stuff out of it and into the Stanleymobile, and still made it to the Shack half an hour before Ford and David Sawyer walked in.

When his kids saw him and ran to his arms—Stanley walked out of the room. Standing on the front porch, he felt a hand rubbing his back. "Hey, hey," Wendy said. "'S OK, man. You an' Ford did great." She had followed him out.

He honked his big orange nose into a handkerchief. "Got somethin' in my stupid eye," Stan complained.

"Me, too," Wendy said. "Well, the easy part is over. Now we gotta figure out how to keep that little family goin'."

"Yeah," Stan said gloomily. "That man's got some pride left, you can tell by lookin' at him. He ain't the type to take charity."

" _Not_ a problem!"

They looked around. Mabel had just ridden Dipper's bike up to the Shack. "'Sup, Mabes?" Wendy asked suspiciously.

"You'll have to wait and see at the party!" Mabel announced, hopping off the bike. She pumped her fist in the air. "Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty! C'mon, join in!"

When they didn't, she shrugged and laughed. "I can do this all day!"

And she pretty nearly did.

* * *

 

**Chapter 11: Scenes from Mabel's Scrapbook**

The rest of the Christmas break passed all too quickly for the twins. So far we haven't learned everything, because too much happened too fast to tell it all.

There was the morning when Mabel, Wendy, and Dipper climbed the chain-link fence at the high-school track so Wendy and Dipper could do their run. First, though, Wendy wanted to see Dipper's sprint, and Mabel's cell phone had a stopwatch app, and Wendy and Dipper did the hundred-meter together and all-out, coming in for an absolute photo finish at 11:31 seconds. Coach Rasmussen caught sight of them and hurried onto the track. "Who are you, boy?"

"Dipper Pines," he'd said. "And this wasn't Wendy's—"

Rasmussen stabbed a stern finger at him. "Why aren't you on my track team?"

"Uh—because I live in California?"

"Hmm." He turned to Wendy. "Corduroy, we got a _women's_ track team. I want to see you next Monday, my office, right after school."

"Positively not!"

Well, that's not quite the end of that, but you get the drift. There were other little things, and some you might like to know about.

So—courtesy of Mabel's scrapbook—here are three more highlights, not necessarily in the order of importance.

* * *

 

_**1\. The Party** _

Everyone said it was the jolliest Christmas party ever held in Gravity Falls on New Year's Day! Such food! Such dancing! Such stopping of flush-faced couples beneath the mistletoe! Such kissings even when not under the mistletoe! Such laughter, such presents, such decorations—aw, the heck with it. Charles Dickens is dead, man.

Cut to the chase: everyone had a great time. When the Gnomes were at last assured that the people of the town would help them with food through the winter, they relaxed enough to thank the humans by performing some traditional Gnome dances, which looked a whole lot like traditional Gnome riots.

Later one of the Gnomes even took the two empty boxes in which Dipper's and Mabel's presents had been, turned his back, and in less than two seconds presented the twins with boxes now heavy in their hands.

"How'd you do that?" Mabel asked.

Jeff patted the package manipulator on the back. "Professional secret."

So they unwrapped the newly rewrapped presents. "Oh! Pacifica!" Mabel said when she saw the top-of-the-line cell phone. "This is too much!"

"No, really," Pacifica said. "It's, like, not locked, so all you have to do is pop in your SIM card and you're good to go. This will let you speed text, it has lots of RAM for pictures and videos, and you absolutely have to use it to text me and send me photos of you and Dipper until you guys come back next summer."

"OK," Mabel said. "I sure will. Thanks!"

"These are so cool!" Dipper said, trying on the virtual-reality glasses that Pacifica had given him. "Whoa! There are games already loaded?"

"About a dozen, and you've got a gift card to get more," Pacifica said. "One's a ghost-hunting game. Just to keep you in practice."

"This is—it's—Pacifica, it's really great. Thank you. We just gave you a card. You haven't opened it yet."

"Well, I don't mind if it's just a card." Pacifica tore open the envelope, took out the contents, and her eyes widened. "Oh. My. God! You guys! How did you do it?"

Her mother heard her and came over. "What, dear?"

"Look at this!" Pacifica said. "Dipper and Mabel bought Molly back for me! After Desperado, she was my favorite pony! When business picked up, Dad tried to buy her back, but the guy who got her wouldn't sell!"

"Welllll," Dipper said, rubbing the back of his neck, "Grunkle Stan actually, uh, negotiated the sale. She's at a boarding stable over in Mossy Run. You can pick her up any time."

And of course Pacifica, blubbering and laughing, had to hug Mabel. Then Dipper. Then she had to look at the certificate. Then hug Dipper again. But then she said, "Where's Dad? He's got a kind of present that I think you guys will get a kick out of. Dad! Daddy! Tell everyone!"

"Is it time?" Mr. Northwest asked as he walked over. When Pacifica kicked his shin—but not hard—he said, "I guess it's time. Mr. Sawyer, Belinda, Rodney, please come over here."

Mr. Sawyer, still moving a little driftily, as though he were afraid he were dreaming and might wake up, shepherded his kids through the crowd, stepping high over a couple of celebrating Gnomes. "Yes, sir?"

Preston Northwest said, "My daughter and Mabel Pines came to me about your situation. You're a carpenter, I understand? Certified electrician and can do plumbing?"

"Well—yes, sir, qualified in all of that, but jobs are scarce," Sawyer said.

"Well, I happen to own the premiere mudflap factory here in Gravity Falls," Preston said. "And last summer my daughter persuaded me to install a new section to treat waste products so the plant is now environmentally safe. The section has just commenced operations. Beginning next week, I need a full-time supervisor of maintenance to oversee all the repairs and upkeep in that part of the operation. I'm offering you the job, if you want it."

"Yes, sir!" Sawyer said, standing tall. "I surely do! I won't let you down!"

Preston reached into his jacket for a folded green paper. "Then I'll consider you hired. I—" his smile became oddly frozen—"always give my employees a month's salary to take care of transition expenses, so please accept this check."

Sawyer took it, blinked at the figure and asked, "I get this much every month?"

From his frozen smile, Preston said, "Of course."

"God bless you, Mr. Northwest!"

"Not at all." They shook hands, Preston trembled a bit on his own, and then he said, "Priscilla, I need a big cup of punch. Being good feels really strange."

But there was more. Manly Dan Corduroy, returned from his apocalyptic camping trip, told Sawyer that he and Soos were going to bring the Sawyers' house up to code. Soos had already strapped on his tool belt just to prove he was a handyman. "You won't know the place in two weeks," Dan promised.

And Bud Gleeful offered to sell Mr. Sawyer a pickup truck, only a year old and only nine thousand miles on the odometer, for no money down and a very reasonable monthly payment. "It's a good sound truck," he said. "Poor fella that owned it originally, well, he got a job transfer to Hawaii and couldn't afford to ship it over, so it's a great deal."

And Grenda said she and Candy and Mabel had personally persuaded the school bus supervisor to slightly extend a bus route so Belinda and Rodney could go to Gravity Falls Combined School when it started again.

And a pastor, a priest, and a rabbi walked into the Mystery Shack and it wasn't even a joke. They brought a collection of toys and clothes their congregations had donated for an overjoyed Belinda and Rodney.

And Grunkles Ford and Stan had arranged to get new appliances for the Sawyers' house and promised that by the time the house was ready the fridge and freezer would be full of enough food to see them through for a month.

And Fiddleford and Mayellen McGucket insisted that until that time came, the Sawyers were to stay with them as their guests.

And Waddles took care of so many scraps of food that even he finally turned away from a half-eaten piece of cake.

So they feasted and laughed together and everyone said that Li'l Soos was the most adorable baby since Gideon had been born, making Gideon blush.

Mabel danced with Adam, Pacifica's boyfriend, and Dipper danced once with Pacifica and a lot of times with Wendy, and not one person looked at the tall redhead and the somewhat shorter boy and said, "Isn't that cute."

The party began to break up before eleven—after all, everyone had celebrated the New Year the night before and had stayed up extra-late for that—and Dipper and Mabel hugged their Grunkles.

"Say it, Grunkle Ford," Mabel told him firmly.

Ford rolled his eyes, but he said, "Stanley—I love you."

Stanley blinked at him, grinned, and said, "Yeah, I know, Poindexter. I know."

Mabel had snapped their picture, but she lowered her new phone, her jaw dropping in disappointed surprise.

The older Mystery Twins walked into the night quibbling, and Mabel said, "Dang it! Poop heck darn! One of these days I'll make 'em both say it at the same time!"

* * *

 

**_2\. Sleeping Together_ **

This happened later that night, after the Christmas party in the Shack. Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy cleaned up, Mabel went to her room, and then alone in the parlor, Wendy and Dipper sat on the floor on a folded quilt, leaning back against the sofa cushions, which they'd put on the floor, watching the Midnite Movie, which came on not at midnight, but twelve-thirty a.m.

It was something called "Haunted Hanukkah," and it had sort of the plot of "A Christmas Carol," except with ghosts of rabbis and yentas instead of Christmas past, present, and future.

But it wasn't really a very interesting movie, and after half an hour they both slumped down to the floor and fell asleep. Dipper lay almost on his left side, Wendy completely on her right. Dipper's arm cushioned her head; she had thrown her left arm over his side. They both snoozed serenely, smiles on their faces.

Mabel got up at two-thirty in the morning, thirsty, and padded barefoot out of the guest room and toward the kitchen. She nearly stumbled on the two sleepers, but saw them in the light of the TV screen (now "How to Build a Backyard A-Bomb Shelter" was showing, a black-and-white documentary from 1952).

Quickly tiptoeing back to her room, Mabel found her new phone, its camera exceptionally good in low-light situations, though it also had a built-in flash that she had already used to snap a freeze-frame photo of a Great Horned Howl (a little like an owl, a little like a coyote) that had been flying past the Shack—and then came quietly back into the parlor. To avoid using the flash, she turned on one lamp. Dim, but plenty of light. Neither Wendy nor Dipper woke up.

Kneeling on the floor at their feet, Mabel found she could line them up in the frame for a great shot, and the meter even said she didn't have to use the flash. "I just hit Blackmail Bingo!" she whispered with an evil grin, adding a hissing, half-held-back giggle. She tensed her finger on the shutter button.

And then she paused. On the view screen, the two of them looked so—well, _sweet_ was the only word—like that. Like they were almost the same age, both younger. Maybe both about twelve, in their relaxed sleep. There was . . . an innocence about them.

"Nah," Mabel said, with a happier smile. She returned the camera to her room and came back with a blanket, which she gently spread over them. "Sweet dreams," she whispered, softly stroking first Dipper's hair, then Wendy's.

Though she did snap this picture of their feet, just sticking out from the blanket, toe to toe, nearly touching. Kind of artistic.

And finally she got her glass of water and turned off the lamp.

And in fact, that's all that really happened. Wendy and Dipper simply went to sleep beside each other and stayed that way all night long. No funny business whatever.

In the morning, Dipper woke up first, around six a.m. He lay staring into Wendy's face in the rosy glow of "The Farm Report" on TV (a short one: "About everything's froze up, folks"). He silently slipped from under Wendy's arm and got up. In his sock feet, just as quietly as Mabel had moved, he went into the gift shop and got a piece of hard candy from the "Thank You, Come Again" jar that Soos had put on the counter. He unwrapped it from its crinkly paper there and popped it in his mouth.

Then he went back carefully lay down again beside Wendy. He leaned close, hesitated, and kissed her softly on the lips. She drew in a surprised breath, stirred a little, sighed, and responded, kissing him back. With his tongue he pressed the candy between his lips and then between hers.

Her eyes popped open. Then with a giggle, she hugged him, pulled him close, and they exchanged a deep kiss—and the hard candy. Then, pulling away, she smacked her lips and murmured huskily, "I love me some peppermint on a cold morning."

"Thank you, Wendy," Dipper said, nuzzling her neck.

She put her hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair. "Mm, nice. For what, dude?"

"For being Wendy. For being the coolest person I'll ever know. For sticking with me even when I'm annoying and acting like a scared kid."

She kissed him again, a sweet peppermint-flavored smooch. "Mm. Hey, when the time comes, Dipper—always wake me up just this same way, OK?"

"You got it, Lumberjack Girl."

She grinned. "No 'Red'?"

"I may be saving that up," Dipper said with a wicked smile. "For a special occasion."

Chuckling throatily, she asked, "Now, what would that be?"

He kissed her cheek. "You'll know it when it gets here."

* * *

 

**_3\. Goodbye Doesn't Last Forever_ **

The next Saturday they had to return home. This time, though, Stan, Ford, and Wendy drove them over to Portland, where they'd catch the 12:05 flight down to Oakland International Airport. They'd arrive at 2:10. "Better'n a seven-hour drive," Stan said.

Dipper looked at Wendy. "Not really."

Ford, for a change, was the one who was quickest on picking up the vibe. "Mabel," he said, "We have more than an hour and a half before the flight. Would it make you airsick if I took you down to the Dreamery Creamery booth and got you a triple-fudge Sundae?"

"One way to find out!" Mabel said.

"Come along, Stanley."

Dipper and Wendy stood facing each other. Wendy, hands in her jeans pockets, shrugged and gave him a sweet happy-sad smile. "You better text me the minute you land, dork," she said.

"I will, yeah, but don't worry. Planes are safe. They tell me. Even Grunkle Stan flies now and then."

"Gonna miss you crazy much," Wendy whispered.

"I'll be back, Lumberjack Girl," Dipper said. "I promise. And you're gonna drive down next June if our track team gets to the finals, remember."

"I sure am." She reached for him. "So goodbye for a little while. Kiss me once for luck."

He did, and when they ended the kiss, he rolled the candy around in his mouth. "I love me some peppermint," he said, resting his forehead against hers.

"I'll have some ready for you when you get back," she promised.

Now, THAT was the photo that Mabel actually did snap . . . .

* * *

 

But let's close the scrapbook on that one. No sense going into the explanations and the discussions with Mr. and Mrs. Pines right now. Let's just say that even parents realize that sometimes friends kiss, at Christmastime, when they're saying goodbye and know they're going to miss each other for a few months that seem a whole lot longer than they are.

Yeah. Let's leave it at that.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

_The End_


End file.
